


Hope For Scars

by Hollandoodle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alaska, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, Fluff, Joffrey is his own warning, Past Domestic Violence, Slow Burn, Smut, Violence, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hollandoodle/pseuds/Hollandoodle
Summary: Game Of Thrones A/USandor is an isolated recluse with no social skills.Sansa struggles with scars on both the outside and the inside.Once they've met, will they allow their paths to meld, or are their past experiences too much to overcome? Will the insurmountable odds stacked against their union cause it to come tumbling down?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first GOT a/u story, please be kind! Comments and suggestions are appreciated. This one is a work in progress so even I don't know how it is going to end. I have decided to post it to minimize my obsessive re-writes.

The sun was shining when he detected movement. From deep inside the shadows of his cabin he could see her walking along the shore. He would not make himself known, would not be introducing himself. But in the depths of his heart he knew he would paint her. She was beautiful, in an otherworldly sort of way. Her dark carrot colored hair hung to her waist, straight and smooth, and her skin was so pale she looked perhaps like a sea nymph instead of a woman. The loose, white tunic she wore over shorts whipped around her with the breeze.

Her legs looked smooth as well, and he wondered what she would look like draped in a white sheet. Or with nothing at all.

Shocked and disgusted by how fast his thoughts had turned explicit, he retreated to his studio. He hadn’t had such thoughts about a woman in years, had mostly kept to himself in his small cabin on the lake’s shore. Such thoughts were dangerous. They could grow big enough, consuming enough, to shatter the small shelter of wood and stone he had made for himself, could shatter the barriers he’d built in his mind.

He pulled his long dark hair back and tied it at his nape, feeling the cool air within the cabin brush over his scars. 

No, those barriers and walls had to stay. They protected him, and they protected others. He didn’t have to inflict his temper on unsuspecting townsfolk and he didn’t have to feel the rejection when someone laid eyes on him for the first time, sometimes the second or third time. Most everyone avoided him and he was okay with that. But for a man who would never have the chance to become a father, rejection by children—being a monster in children's eyes—cut him deep.

No, it was best that he limited contact with others. He even preferred doing his grocery shopping early in the morning on a weekday to avoid most kids and adults. He would load his cart with a couple months worth of groceries in the summer, or a couple weeks worth in the winter, and hand over his cash without a word to the cashier.

He likely would never meet his new neighbor, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feature her in one, or several, of his paintings.

It was early morning yet and he had all day to just paint, so he set to work.

 

Sansa was tired. Tired of running, of hiding, of constantly looking behind her. She would feel eyes on her at random times, even if she were alone. The fear of Joffrey catching her kept her up at night, gave her nightmares, and made it so that she hadn’t a moment’s peace in months.

She had been so tired of the gang violence. Her family’s involuntary involvement in the scene had led her to being engaged to the oldest son of a rival gang, the Baratheon family. The Starks had thought that combining the two families would bring an end to the fighting.

It had only brought death. 

First was Joffrey's father, which broke the tenuous truce between the two families. Sansa was then a hostage though still engaged to a boy she had once fancied that she had been in love with. He was cruel, controlling what she ate, what she wore, keeping her from her family. When her father had approached Joffrey with the desire to have peace between the families he had been shot, right in front of Sansa.

It was a scene that played out often in her nightmares.

What followed were the death of her mother, brother, and the disappearance of her two youngest brothers, presumed dead. Her sister had been the only smart one—well, besides her half brother John, who was stationed in another country. Arya had run away just as the violence started back up, and Sansa wondered if she would ever see her sister again.

It wasn’t fair. All those members of her family dead, with one of them living elsewhere and two on the run. And Joffrey had only lost his father, and not his mother, uncle, sister or brother. Plus he still had all his lackeys to do the hard work.

Not a moment's peace, she thought again. Though she'd purchased the small cabin and land with cash for a steep discount, using her mother's name Tully, she still felt that it was only a matter of time before Joffrey found her and either tortured her, killed her, or brought her back to marry him. None of them mattered—they all meant the death of her, either physically or spiritually.

She supposed she could enjoy the view, though. The lake was surrounded closely by black mountains covered in greenery. Today the sky was a beautiful clear blue with a smattering of clouds, and as Sansa closed her eyes and let her head fall back she could smell the wet earth, the new growth of plants and flora, and clean, fresh air she had never smelled in Florida. She was so glad to be on the opposite side of the United States. She would be happy if she never saw Florida again.

She had chosen this place because it was secluded and the price of the cabin was dirt-cheap. The neighborhood—if one wanted to call a handful of cabins that—were all fairly well spaced except for the one next to hers, which was literally a stone's throw away. Perhaps thirty yards of bushes and small trees separated the two, and she had yet to meet the neighbor, though she had been warned that she likely never would. He was a hermit and kept to himself, and wasn't friendly to visitors.

Just as well, honestly. She hadn't moved here to make friends. She had moved here in fact to get away from people. He could stay a hermit, and she'd be happy.

Her cabin was quaint, though when she'd first seen it she had been aghast. Going from a mansion with twenty bedrooms to this small, one room cabin had been quite a shock. She'd manage, however. Already she had made it seem like a home, and she had only sewn curtains for the windows out of a couple old sheets she'd found under the bed.

If she needed supplies there was a town just on the other side of a short canyon that ran straight through the mountains on the other side of the lake. She'd been told there was a grocery store and a few others, but that most things people wanted around here were shipped in. 

Just as well. She planned on limiting her exposure to people. It really didn't matter that she was in some backwoods town living in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. Joffrey was and always would be a threat.

The wind was starting to whip her hair into knots so she turned and headed back in, eyeing the cabin with the dark windows. She had to admit, she was slightly curious about its occupant. But not enough to be neighborly.

For what seemed like a umpteenth time in a row, she turned on the burner on the stove, got out a pot with water, and began cooking a ramen noodle packet. She was getting tired of quick meals and processed foods. At Joffrey's mansion she'd had someone constantly making her meals for her, and although it usually wasn't food she picked for herself, at least it was made from scratch. She missed real food.

She'd been thinking of trying to learn how to cook, so perhaps on her next trip into town she would gather a list of supplies and buy enough to try a few different meals. 

After dinner she washed a load of clothes in the tiny washer that occupied a corner of the cabin. There was no dryer but the previous occupant had assured her there was a clothesline out back for in the summer, and a rack beside the washer for in the winter. After brushing the knots out of her hair and a starter search for recipes to try, she took the basket of wet laundry out to the line.

It was in the back of the house, strung in a V shape between three trees. She found a bucket of clothespins hanging from the connecting tree and got to work.

Doing this kind of thing—small chores—had started to calm her over the previous months. She had never had to do anything like it in her previous life, even when living with her parents. But engaging in an activity like washing dishes, folding laundry, dusting or tidying up gave her something to do with her hands, and it usually also kept her mind busy. She wasn’t left with a lot of time to think and wonder and worry. She could pretend that things were normal.

As she looked around her small piece of property she hoped things would be better here. She really would be like the proverbial needle in a haystack. Joffrey would have a hard time finding her here. She hoped that meant she could finally find some peace, make a home for herself.

In striving for that, the first step would be learning how to cook. So when she was done hanging her clothes she grabbed her keys and her purse and headed into town.

At the checkout counter at the store the teenage girl behind the counter smiled a big braces smile at Sansa. “You’ve got a lot of groceries, ma’am,” she said. Her nametag read Kristy. Sansa, not really wanting to start up a conversation, just nodded and smiled. The girl didn’t take the hint as she continued bagging. “Say, you’re not the lady that moved into the old Wall place, are you?” She smiled, apparently seeing the surprise on Sansa's face. “It’s a nice area. I love that lake! There’s lots of trout in there,” she was saying. “You oughtta try your hand at fishing there, except stay away from that neighbor of yours.” Setting aside the fishing information for later use, Sansa looked at the girl at the mention of the neighbor. “I heard tell that last year on Halloween some kids tried to trick or treat at his cabin and he ran them off with a gun! Folks say he’s a mean one. Beat up old Spencer Johnson once for shooting a grouse on his property.” Sansa raised her eyebrows.

A commotion towards the back of the line caused the girl to look back and holler, “Hang on, Fred! I’m helping the new lady!”

Sansa wished she could melt into the floor.

Kristy kept bagging though thankfully she had stopped commenting on things related to Sansa and instead began talking about the weather. It was almost entertaining how Kristy could talk about uninteresting subjects, sort produce, type in numbers and nicely bag groceries all at the same time. Sansa wondered if management knew what a gem they were sitting on.

When Sansa handed over cash for the large grocery bill Kristy’s eyes widened, but she recovered quickly and gave Sansa her change. “Don’t be a stranger, now,” she called to Sansa's retreating back.

Don’t count on it, Sansa replied in her mind.

 

Sandor happened to be outside chopping wood when she arrived back at the cabin, driving the quiet little hatchback car. She pulled close to the front door and he watched as she carried armful after armful of groceries and who knows what else into her cabin. He slowly backed up until he was in the shadows behind the cabin. What could she be doing with all those bags? He wondered. 

Then he checked himself—he would not be curious about her. He would allow himself a few looks for inspiration for paintings but that was it. 

And the next time she left he would move his woodpile to the other side of the cabin.

He had noticed the previous owner hadn’t left her any wood to dry for the winter and almost wondered what she was going to do about it. Not his problem, he reminded himself.

He also watched as she took a fishing rod and a small tackle box out of the car and left them outside next to the door. She bent down with her back to him as she placed the tackle box on the ground and he nearly growled as his body betrayed him. Quickly turning, he walked further back alongside the cabin and set his ax down on the other side.

He knew she had purchased the place but she looked like she was really settling in. He sighed. He was going to have to get used to having a neighbor again. 

Later that night as he was sitting down to eat his own dinner he heard her smoke detector start screaming and he got up to look out his window. If there were a genuine emergency he wouldn’t think twice about running out the door to help her.

But as he watched, she threw open the window on the side of the cabin that faced his and then walked out the front door waving a cookie sheet. Smoke trickled out both the door and the window, and she stood on the front porch holding the pan, one hand on her hip. 

Her chin fell almost to her chest and he thought she looked so defeated. Then she raised her head and looked over at cabin, and for a moment he thought she could see him. He froze, wondering if he had just been caught. But for the first time he got a really good look watcher face. Inspiration, he told himself and he studied her for a moment.

Her eyebrows were dark, arching nicely above almond shaped eyes, and her nose was small, perfectly shaped for her face. He liked how her lips were formed, not too wide but most assuredly bow shaped. And full for their size, the lower one being slightly poutier than her upper lip. 

Then she turned and walked back inside, her step determined. It looked good on her, long legs showing under short shorts, striding with confidence.

He wondered what it was that she’d burned.

 

A couple days later Sansa woke early and grabbed her small selection of bait from the fridge. Corn, shrimp, salmon eggs. Everything the man at the fishing shop had told her worked with lake trout. Then she stepped out onto her porch with her steaming cup of coffee. 

Wrangling her pole, the bag of bait and the tackle box in one hand and her coffee in the other, she walked the short trek down to the shore. It was a beautiful morning, with the sun already showing over the tops of the mountains in the distance. Birds were singing, and the slight chill in the air did nothing to dampen her spirits. Today she would go fishing for the first time.

She leaned down and put her pole and everything in that hand on the dirt. Just as she stood there was a splash.

At first she thought it could be a moose, but it took her brain only milliseconds to realize that what she was looking at was a very tall, hairy man who had just stood up in waist high water.

Sansa screamed and ran, dropping her coffee and not turning around before entering her cabin and slamming the door. Her heart was racing, she had been so startled. 

It would have been better had he been a moose!

What on earth was he doing?! She knew he must have been her neighbor. She didn’t think a random person would be swimming in the lake in front of their properties. But really—it was five in the morning! Who swam in a cold lake at that time of day? 

Plus she was sure she hadn’t seen any swim trunks when he stood. She’d seen enough skin on him to recognize those sloping muscles men often had lower on their stomachs. 

And he had been covered in hair!

Just as that thought entered her mind a knock at the door made her yelp. She peaked out the high window and saw the back of a man’s head. Lord, he was tall. His hair was dark from still being wet but it hung to his shoulders, curling slightly. She thought it odd that he had his back to the door.

“Hello?” She said through the door. She wasn’t stupid, he was still a stranger. And after just seeing him in that… state… she wasn’t going to make this any more awkward than what it already was.

Then his reply came, deep and gravelly. “I’m done. The lake is yours.” And then he just walked away.

He just… walked away. What? Who… Huh? She was so confused. Here was her new neighbor and instead of introducing himself and deflating the weird circumstances of their meeting, he had let her know he was done swimming and left. Just left. 

She had known to expect something odd about him, by what people had said about him since she came to town. But she hadn’t expected THAT. 

He really had been quite tall. Judging by what she had seen of him through the window she guessed had have to duck to get through her cabin door. He was intimidating. Scary, even. She decided then that she would just stay away from him, just like everyone else. She hadn’t come here to make friends and not knowing her neighbor wasn’t the end of the world.

His voice stuck with her, though, circling through her thoughts throughout the day. Six words—he had said six words to her. It was as though he didn’t know how to talk. Or at least, he had forgotten the niceties of polite conversation. But the tone of his voice—low, brooking no argument when had told her the lake was hers—stayed with her, though she wasn’t sure why.

Puzzled, Sansa gathered her wits and cracked open the door. But somehow she knew he would be good and truly gone. He had played right into the opinions of all the townsfolk she had spoken with or heard about him from. And she had yet to get a good look of his face. Blushing, she remembered how his naked chest had drawn her gaze earlier.

Resolving to put him out of her mind she opened the door fully and saw that he had brought her coffee cup and had put it on the railing of her porch 

She was dumbfounded. That was… curious. Thoughtful. Unexpected. Maybe the monster was still part man after all.

 

Sandor had taken to watching his neighbor from the shadows in and around his cabin. He knew she rose early and liked to have hot coffee outside. He knew she was sensible in doing laundry often, and kept her yard clean. She had even weeded around the driveway and the empty flowerbeds surrounding the cabin. She had made it look a lot better than what the previous owner had.

He also knew she didn’t go anywhere. Not that there was anywhere to go nearby, but now, four days after she’d come back from her shopping trip, her car was still in the same spot.

He couldn’t blame her, though; because his old pickup was still in the same place it had been for weeks.

He had also gotten the impression that this kind of living wasn’t what she was used to. She still hadn’t done anything about her winter wood stores, and her antics when she had caught a trout had almost made him smile, a feeling that was unfamiliar. He had watched as she’d gagged while sticking the knife into the hole and cutting up the belly. Then she gagged again while pulling out the guts. When it came time to cut off the head she had had to walk a short distance away and take a few deep breaths.

She had also had several more episodes of smoke detectors going off, usually at meal times. She always walked out the front door carrying that cookie sheet. Once she had sat on the bench on her porch and had looked utterly defeated.

This brought up the question, why was she here? Why would she have given up city life? She seemed so out of place, too pretty to be living out here. Too delicate.

But he did also notice that she always finished what she started. She had cooked that fish (he’d smelled it), and a couple times he had smelled her successful cooking or baking. And she didn’t seem to mind sitting for a couple hours waiting for a bite on her fishing line. 

He did know that she liked music, and all kinds at that. She never played it loud but at times when her window was open and nothing in his cabin was making noise he’d hear it. Classical music, country, rock, alternative. He’d even heard reggae a time or two. But mostly she played country music. He didn’t mind, since she kept her volume down. It just so happened that their cabins were so close together that he could hear it sometimes.

Without really realizing what he was doing, he found himself working twice as hard at chopping wood. He tried convincing himself that he was just cutting extra for himself, but eventually he admitted that he would find a way to get it to her wood shed. Without her seeing him. He couldn’t--wouldn’t—introduce himself to her. He would avoid that at all costs. 

He had found himself wondering what it would be like to do just that, but couldn’t get past the look of revulsion on her face. Just thinking about it had surprised him, because he hadn’t even come close to considering it with anyone in years. He was certain that once she laid eyes on his scars—how they dragged down the corner on his right eye, how he basically had no ear on that side, and how they crept down his neck to the top of his shoulder like a hateful vine taking over his body—she would never want to see him again. 

So rather than dealing with yet another painful encounter with another human, he would remain anonymous. 

The other day when he had surprised her on the lakeshore he had been just as surprised to see her. Thank God she turned tail and ran. She avoided what he had wanted to prevent. He was certain that if she had spoken with anyone in town, by now she would have heard tales about him—about how he never spoke to anyone, how he was mean and angry, and how little kids thought he was a monster. He wasn’t sure what had made her run but he hoped she stuck with whatever emotion caused that reaction. He aimed to stay away from her and he hoped she would do the same for him.

He had stopped going for his early morning swims and instead walked down the shore late at night in the opposite direction from her cabin and swam there. As far as he knew, she was unaware of his new routine. 

So one night when he was returning from his swim he saw a small campfire on the shore. His neighbor was there, wearing her signature long sleeve shirt and shorts, with a shawl wrapped around her. She was sitting on a log just staring into the flames, her hair gathered on top of her head in a messy bun. She obviously hadn’t heard him approaching so he quietly walked upwards towards the tree line, towards the side path that led to his front door. If he managed to make it all the way back without snapping a twig it would be a miracle, but the alternative was to stand there until she decided to go back inside, and he didn’t know how long she had been out there.

He stood still for a moment, contemplating his situation when he saw her sigh. She breathed in so deeply and let it out so slowly that she looked as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Once again he found himself wondering what a woman like her was doing in a secluded cabin such as this. She was young, beautiful, and ripe for life to hand her opportunities on a silver platter. And yet here she was, catching trout and hanging laundry in the Alaskan back country.

She was an enigma, one he had no intention of figuring out.

Just as he was about to head back to his cabin she started to hum. She hadn’t moved so at first he thought perhaps she had left her radio on. But as she continued, humming a slow, sad sounding tune, he realized it was coming from her. She had a beautiful voice. He could tell even though she wasn’t singing, because he was entranced. The song would sound hopeful and then sink to a low, depressed note, followed by another higher note. She hummed with a beautiful vibrato and he couldn’t drag his feet away.

She reached a crescendo in the song and as he watched her hum the song he saw firefight reflected in the tears pooling in her eyes. Then they slowly drifted closed, the tears running down her cheeks, and the song came to a sudden, final end on a long, soft note. 

She stood, stated at the fire for a moment longer, and then started to kick dirt on the fire. Once she was satisfied he watched her bring a small bucket to the shoreline and fill it, bringing it back to douse the remains of the fire. Then she walked back to her cabin and shut the door.

He was dumbfounded. He had just unintentionally intruded on an incredibly private moment, though he had no idea what it’s basis was. Was she sad? Mad? Grieving? Missing someone?

He shook his head. It shouldn’t matter to him. She was no one to him, a stranger. 

But as the days wore on and summer came full force, he couldn’t deny that he was getting to know her.

 

The wood started appearing in her wood shed the next day. She woke up early as was her habit and made her cup of coffee. That morning she had chosen a light linen tunic in sky blue. She loved these tunics. They helped her forget what she was hiding.

As she walked outside she stood on her porch, hot mug cupped in her hands, and tilted her head back. She loved the smell of the forest behind her, the freshness of the breeze coming off the lake. There were no sounds—no traffic, very seldom an airplane, no hum of a thousand electricity poles or the distant pop pop pop of gunshots. There were just nature sound—robins, sometimes frogs, the rustling of the leaves at the top of the trees as they danced in the wind. Sometimes she felt like she had found heaven on earth; that she was living a meditation. It was singularly entrancing. She knew she had never known a love for a place such as this, and doubted she ever would again.

Then she happened to look to the left and saw a single column of perfectly stacked firewood in back corner of her open wood shed. The sight confused her, so she stood staring at it for a minute before she came back to reality.

Her neighbor?

But why would he do that? To apologize for startling her the other day? No, surely not. That was over and done with. And there really wasn’t any other explanation after that. 

She’d hardly call it being neighborly, but… she supposed it could be HIS kind of neighborly. 

Which would totally go against what everyone else had said about him. Would a monster give the gift of chopped wood? Would an angry man who wanted to keep the world out anonymously leave such a gift? 

She knew without a doubt that it had to be him, but his motive puzzled her. He didn’t even want her to see his face. He had hid it from her the day he brought her coffee cup back.

Ah, there it was—two clues put together that now painted a clearer picture of him. He had brought her back her cup, and now he had brought her firewood. 

She decided she would have to thank him, but just as he had no wish for contact, neither did she. But thank him she would, though with what she didn’t know.

 

Over the next few days Sandor fell into a routine. He would split wood in the morning on the side of his cabin facing away from hers. Then he would paint for most of the day, stopping to eat or to get a drink. And even though the sun was up late during these summer days, it still got dark enough at night that he could quietly deliver one more stack of firewood to the woman.

During the day he would catch sight of her on her porch, often sitting in a chair with a ball of yarn in a basket at her feet, plucking away at some knitting project. He didn’t think she really knew what she was doing—she would stare at her phone and then attempt a few more stitches, and then stare at her phone some more. She really seemed to be teaching herself how to knit, which he supposed was an admirable quality. Not too many people would take the time to do that these days.

Two days after the first stack of wood was safely in her wood shed, a container of muffins had been left on his porch some time during the day. No note, no explanation. Though he knew it was because of the wood. He returned the muffin container later that same day to her porch railing, empty.

Three days after that it as a container of sausage gravy—the best sausage gravy he had ever had—and a bag of biscuits that he’d had to cut the bottoms off of. They were rock hard.

Somehow they managed to avoid all contact, even visual. Well, he saw her but was certain she never saw him. He knew she must hear him chopping wood but she never came over to greet him. And he heard her all the time—her music, banging pans, or small yelps of glee when she had caught a fish at the shore. 

He had learned to admit to himself that he enjoyed seeing her. She usually wore her hair down, and he liked how bright it was, how it looked like it was on fire when the sunlight hit it. And as much time as she spent outside, her skin remained pale. He had seen her putting on sun block a few times and figured that was why.

She sometimes wore a sunhat, one of those wide brimmed numbers that women wore. Hers was tan in color with a white ribbon around the crown that was tied in the back in a large bow. The two tails hung past the brim and would sway and dance in the breeze as she sat in her camping chair on the shore.

She had been wearing it this morning when the sun had breeched the top of the mountains, sitting in her chair and staring at the lake surface. She had been wearing that white tunic and a pair of jeans, looking like a catalog model. If he’d been a photographer he might have asked to take her picture. But as it was, he was just a painter.

And he was due into town with a load of paintings today, so he quickly packed his truck with new stock and headed out, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road.

“Good morning, Sandor,” said Bill, the owner of the only gift and coffee shop in town. He’d peeked through the doorway back into the stock room to see who had used the back entrance.

“Morning,” replied Sandor. The youthful, wiry man with the white beard favored him with a toothy grin. 

“Bring me some more paintings?” Sandor nodded in reply, leaning a stack against the wall beside the door. “Are the prices marked?” he shot the owner a look that made Bill chuckle. “I know, I know,” he said, “Sell them for whatever I think I can get for them. Well, Sandor, I can get a hell of a lot for them.” Then he handed Sandor an envelope he’d retrieved from the desk. It was thick with cash.

Sandor took it and gruffly thanked him, but as he turned Bill spoke up. “Lucy still wants you to come to dinner, you know.” Sandor stopped, his back to Bill and one hand on the doorframe. “She wants to make you lasagna, knows you like it. It’s been a long time, Sandor.” Bill paused, probably trying to figure out a different way to voice the same old argument. “You can’t hide out there forever. Pretty soon you’ll be old and shriveled and you will have forgotten what it’s like to have someone care about you.”

Sandor couldn’t turn around. Bill and his wife Lucy were the only two people in town who saw Sandor for the man he still was inside, though that was likely because he had been in contact with them on a regular basis with his paintings for years. They sold well in Bills shop.

“Let her know… I’ll take a rain check,” he replied gruffly. Then he walked out.

On his way back home with a big load of groceries, his temper flared when his truck sputtered and died a mile from his cabin. He cursed and hit the steering wheel. Then his large hands gripped it, knowing full well that hitting something never solved anything.

He had no choice but to walk home. He took off his flannel shirt leaving only a t-shirt and his jeans, and loaded up his hands with bags. He’d have to make two trips but it couldn’t be helped. At least on the second trip he could bring back some tools to try to fix the damn thing. 

On the walk back to the cabin he had plenty of time to think on Bill and Lucy's offer. Lucy was a nice woman and a damn good cook. And Bill we right—Sandor loved her lasagna. Back when he thought there was a chance that the townspeople would accept him he’d become friendly with them, sometimes even holding a conversation. But then he’d learned that rumors were being circulated about him, likely because he didn’t socialize. Bill and Lucy were upstanding members of the community but their opinions were only two in a spread out community of hundreds. 

Then there was the incident with that idiot Spencer Johnson, illegally shooting a grouse on Sandor's land and then taking offense when Sandor had taken the grouse from him. He’d had to get physical, but only because Spencer had had one too many beers that morning and pointed his shotgun at Sandor. Anyone in their right mind would have done what Sandor had done—taken advantage of Spencer’s poor reflexes, knocked him out with a right hook, and then dropped him off at his parent’s door. 

Chasing off a group of high school boys who had come around under the guise of trick or treating but who had really wanted to siphon his gas, had been the last straw. Since Sandor hadn’t been willing to venture out in public and defend himself for either of these incidents, rumors abounded, likely spread by the offenders. Somehow they had been blown out of proportion into him beating up Spencer, and chasing off young trick or treaters on Halloween.

No, as much as he used to enjoy dinners with Bill and Lucy, it did him no good. Living as a recluse was as good as life was going to get. No one cared what he thought, or really what he did as long as he stayed by himself. And he had his art, which satisfied him.

He was walking up the driveway now, to where it split into two and his went left and hers went right. But just then she came around the side of her cabin, looking down at the towel in her hands, seemingly deep in thought. She didn’t notice him standing ten yards away, probably because he had frozen.

She was wearing a swimsuit and showing more skin than he had ever seen her show. It was a pale purple bikini that left little to the imagination. Including what he had never imagined seeing. 

She had scars all over her upper arms, her back, even on her chest and stomach. When she reached up to hang the towel he could see them on her sides and on the underside of her arms. They were all different sizes, some long and thin, some wide, some he knew without a doubt to be cigarette burns. They didn’t cover her skin the way his did so they likely didn’t affect her movement. But they were so numerous, he wouldn’t have been able to count them, especially from that distance, even if he’d tried.

She had obviously just come in for a swim as her hair was in a high bun and it was dripping wet. He figured she had gone out knowing that he was away, and obviously hadn’t known he was back.

But the scars… A rage was building inside him. If shopping bag handles could break, his would have shattered. He could feel his fingernails digging into his palms. 

As she turned her back to him and walked back around to the front of her cabin, he could see scars running horizontally on the backs of her upper thighs. 

He was seeing red, and he wanted to hit something. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to demand she tell him what happened. Who did that to her. What was the little shits name so he could track him down and decapitate him. Or better yet, do to the cretin what the cretin had obviously done to her.

He took a deep breath, knowing none of that would likely happen. But as he walked back to his cabin he felt a deep sorrow for her, as well as shame. His injury at the hands of his older brother had caused him what would be a lifelong torture. He was doomed to be an outcast, a hermit whose face scared little children and caused people to give him a wide berth. But his burn, although more painful than anything he could ever imagined, had happened in the span of ten seconds. Gregor had held his face to the coals for no longer than that, angry that his little brother had played with one of his toys without asking.

But her scars—the amount of time it must have taken to acquire all of those scars made his stomach turn. She had been tortured, beaten, burned. She had experienced more pain than he ever had. It was no wonder she was here, staying out of his way and hiding.

Sandor clenched his jaw and he could feel the scar tissue on his cheek pull tight, a reminder that his scars were on the outside. Hers—he felt so angry about this—were on the outside where she could hide them under long sleeves, but he couldn’t imagine how many she also had inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and re-written, and edited again. Sometimes I just have to put it down and get it out of my mind so I can move on.
> 
> Please read, enjoy, and comments are always welcome :-)

CHAPTER 2

Sansa had dressed in a moss green shirt with long sleeves, and jeans after her swim. She hadn’t heard her neighbor return so she thought it safe to deliver another gift of thanks. For eight straight days now she had woken to a new column of wood in her shed. It had taken her almost that long to figure out what he was doing—he was giving her a supply of wood for the winter. The realization had made her smile, and gave her cause to work double time on the damned hat she was attempting to knit for him.

She opened her door to deliver the tray of cookies when she heard footsteps outside. Knowing it was unlikely there was a stranger nearby, she peered around the corner of her cabin and saw her neighbor's retreating form.

She felt awkward for spying such as she was, but her curiosity overruled her sense of propriety.

He strode like a man on a mission. His steps were long, not fast but not lazy either. He was wearing straight leg jeans that hugged his butt and that went over the high cuffs of his boots. His t-shirt was dark green and tucked into his waistband, showing a large knife hanging from his belt. And his hair was indeed long, reaching just past his shoulders by an inch or two. His shape was pleasing to the eye, she had to admit. He looked healthy, fit.

His arms were bare, one of them carrying a toolbox. She wondered where he was going. This was only the second time she'd actually been able to see him and after living next to each other for so much time, she found herself painfully curious.

As he walked away she could faintly see veins popping out on the arm holding the toolbox, and the fist of his other hand clenching and unclenching. He was mad, perhaps? 

Deciding not to dwell too much on her neighbor, she waited until he was out of sight to walk the brownies over to his porch. At least when he came back he would find them waiting for him. The thought made her feel the slightest bit of warmth inside—the idea that she was doing something that could make someone happy. That could make HIM happy. And this time it was in a healthy way, she hoped, meaning this time she wasn't doing it to placate, or to avoid being hit. She was doing it because it was right and good.

The reminder of how she used to behave around Joffrey made her shiver. Never again, she vowed. She would never act that way again for anyone.

Determined not to let the day be ruined by her thoughts, she went inside and turned on some music to knit to.

 

Sandor managed to get his truck running but knew it was only a temporary fix. He'd have to bring it in to town to Mark Burke's mechanic's shop before fall came. Being stuck out here with no vehicle during the winter was a bitch. If they didn't keep up with snow removal they'd get snowed in and have to wait until Spring for it to melt so they could get out. One doesn't just shovel a mile of six-foot snow berms.

It was nearing midnight and he was delivering his third column of wood tonight. He didn't want to think about how seeing her scars had affected him, nor how it had caused him to work extra hard to get more wood done. The implications of that bothered him. Did he really want her to see the extra effort he'd put in for her? Or was he just wanting to get it done, so he could go back to his normal routine of not caring about anyone else?

It was hard to tell, but as he worked he couldn't stop thinking about red hair and alabaster skin.

The night was quiet and he was carefully setting down armloads of wood rather than throwing them down because he didn't want her coming out to investigate. This had been his habit since he started accumulating the wood, knowing that he did it while she slept.

The last thing he wanted was a face-to-face encounter. He didn't want her to have to see his face, the scars and the lack of hair and ear on that side. He was a hideous sight, he knew, and he didn't want to scare her.

He chose not to dwell on her growing importance to him, which even in his mind sounded a bid ridiculous. He didn’t know her at all, and yet she was leaving an increasing imprint on him. He instead thought about those brownies.

He could tell they hadn't been from a box. They were just too good, too fudgy and lacking the chemical taste of a box mix. He was a bit perplexed by her form of repayment for the wood and idly wondered if she felt indebted to him. But he also knew he wasn't going to question it. Contact was out of the question.

So when he heard her inside the cabin, moaning and crying out in what could only be described as fear, he froze. The noise continued and even got louder, with her yelping and crying. He dropped the wood by the shed and went up to the window on that side of the cabin, knowing what he was doing was crossing boundaries of their tenuous neighbor agreement, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He cupped his hands around his head to peer inside the cabin and he could see her in the faint glow of the oven light she'd left on. Her bed was on the back wall of the cabin to his right and she was thrashing about in her sleep, wet with a sheen of sweat and telling some invisible attacker to stop, that he was hurting her.

Sandor's thoughts warred within him. He wanted to help her, to tell her that not everyone was evil, to rescue her from the horrible nightmare she was having, but he didn't know how. He was becoming angry—angry at her attackers, the people who had done this to her, to fate for playing this cruel joke on both of them. 

As he watched her she kicked the covers off. She was wearing a short black nightgown that was riding up on her legs. He couldn't fathom how so much kicking and blocking wasn't waking her up but he had to do... something.

He walked over to the wall beside her bed and hit it, hard. Just once, but loudly. From within the cabin the sound stopped and he waited, now hearing her move around. He had woken her, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

But then he heard her door open and froze once again, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide from her if she for any reason walked around to the back of the cabin. He pushed his back against it, then decided to creep around to the side opposite his cabin in case she wanted to investigate the noise.

She did, as he heard her light footsteps come around that corner just as he stepped out of her line of sight.

It sounded as though she had stopped where he had been standing just a moment ago. He hoped she wouldn't continue investigating. But when she didn't move for some time he leaned over to peer around the corner with his left eye.

She was still standing there, breathing hard as though she had just exerted herself. She was indeed wearing a short black nightgown, with thin straps and lace along the front edge on her chest. She stood with one hand on the side of her cabin and her head resting on her forearm. She was no longer upset or crying, but she looked tired, so very tired. He could see her scars in the thin light, on her upper arms and shoulders. 

His heart constricted once again as he resumed his hiding position. He shouldn't care for her. Shouldn't be bothered by her nightmares, by her scars, by her beauty. He shouldn't be wondering how soft her hair was, especially now after the night she'd been having. But he was.

So as soon as she walked back into the cabin he strode back to his and took the path down to the shore to go for a cold swim to clear his head.

 

Sansa didn't know what to think about what had just happened. She had been about to wake up from a horrible dream when she had heard a loud bang on the wall of her cabin. It had brought her out of her disappearing sleep quickly, and she'd gone to investigate.

It hadn't been hard to guess what had happened—the wood dropped haphazardly by the wood shed, the very large footprints facing the wall of her cabin, and now his retreating form as she watched him out the window.

She must have been dreaming and he'd heard her, and had hit the wall of the cabin to wake her up. There was no other explanation.

It was obvious he had been working—overnight three more columns of wood had appeared in her woodshed. She wondered why he had done so much in one night, and also if he ever slept.

But now she watched him stride back to his cabin and then take a path to the shore. Through the trees she could see him, whipping off his shirt and his shoes angrily and diving into the lake with the rest of his clothes on. Then as she watched he began to swim fast, with no apparent direction except away from the shore.

He seemed upset and she had to wonder if it had been her nightmare that had upset him. 

She would likely never know. But later that day when she walked over to deliver a tray of homemade breakfast burritos, she'd included a note. It read simply, "Thank you." 

Two days later she was standing on her porch cleaning another couple of trout when movement caught her eye. It was her neighbor, stepping out of his usual routine. He was carrying a massive log on his shoulder, at least four feet long and perhaps a foot in diameter.

The sight was so unusual—he was out during the day—that she stopped what she was doing. If he saw her he paid her no mind. She watched as he let the log drop in front of his porch and went back around the side of his cabin to get another.

She had to admit, he must have been really strong to carry those logs. And she could see it, the muscles under his shirt, in his arms. This was the best look at him she'd gotten since she had moved in, and she wondered what had changed that he was willing to work outside with her there.

He kept his head down as he walked and his hair fell over the sides of his face and even in front a bit, shielding his face from her view. She still didn't know what he looked like, but was getting such a good view of him now, feeding her curiosity, that she didn't realize what she was doing until she had cut into the side of her finger with the knife.

She felt the pain, could see the small flap of skin open and oozing blood. Everything disappeared as she looked won at the cut. She heard so many things crash into her mind at once, memories of a voice she never wanted to hear again.

"You're so stupid."

Her heart started to beat faster.

"You deserved that."

"Look, she's crying again."

She was starting to hyperventilate.

"It's just a little blood, Sansa—you won't die."

It was Joffrey's voice, and all of them were being said with a sinister smile on his face, a grin that told her he enjoyed seeing her in pain and bleeding. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks.

When the black started to creep in from the outer edges of her vision she realized too late to do anything about it that she was fainting.

 

Sandor saw her fall. He had chosen to work outside, had finally decided to stop her presence from preventing his normal activities, and was going to make a bench for his front porch. But his eyes had been on her almost the whole time, watching her through the shield of his hair. He kept it long to hide behind, and to hide himself from others. 

As he carried the second log out front he knew she was watching him. He knew he seemed odd, and now looked out of place. She must have thought he was nocturnal. 

She'd been standing there wearing her white tunic and jeans, looking perfect, when he saw her look down. She had frozen, her hands weren't moving, and then she was dropping, falling to her porch. It had shocked him so much that for a split second he hadn't reacted. Then he was dropping the log and running, not sure what he was going to find.

He bounded up onto her porch and looked down at her, torn between wanting to help and his instinctual avoidance of contact with other people. But he crouched down beside her anyway, pushing away his fear of touching her. He tentatively reached out and patted her cheek with the back of his gloved hand and, seeing the glove, chided himself and took them off. She didn't wake up, but he did see the blood on her shirt and saw that the hand resting on her stomach was cut. 

He looked around for anything to staunch the bleeding but didn't see anything, so he took out his knife and cut off a piece of his shirt, wrapped her finger in it and tied it. Then he reached down and picked her up, half hoping that she would wake and half hoping that she wouldn't, and carried her into the open door of her dark cabin.

She wasn't moving but she was breathing so he set her down on her bed and felt around on her scalp for any bumps. There wasn't any, thank God, so he found a washcloth, wet it, and set about wiping her face.

He hadn't had a chance to think through what he was doing. If he had wanted to avoid contact, this was not the way to do it. Then again, he wasn't going to let her collapse and not come to see what was wrong. He looked at her hand, barely being able to see in the darkness that her finger wasn't bleeding through the scrap of his shirt, and wondered what it was that had made her faint. She must not like the sight of blood.

Deciding she just needed a few minutes to recover he quickly jogged back to his cabin and grabbed a cleansing wipe, some ointment and a band aid. He hadn't inspected the cut but he figured if it wasn't still bleeding that it hadn't been as bad as the blood on her shirt had told her it was.

He was gone less than a minute but when he returned he stopped short in the doorway. She was sitting now on the edge of the bed, looking down at her finger. She didn't look up when he entered and he guessed it was because she knew who had brought her inside.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, still looking at her finger. "Thank you for wrapping my finger." She sounded sad, dejected. It actually bothered him that she wasn't looking at him, as he so often expected a bad reaction when someone caught a glimpse of his face.

He didn't say anything, but she wasn't moving or taking care of her cut. Deciding to ignore the warnings going off in his mind, he strode over to her and knelt in front of her, keeping his hair dangling in front of his face. He knew she wouldn't get a good look at him anyway in the darkness of the cabin but one could never be too careful.

He could smell her, being in this close proximity to her. She smelled nice, like a faint perfume and nature.

He reached out to her hand and she flinched, pulling it away. She was like a skittish animal, and he blamed the scars. Blamed the person who had made her that way. But after a moment he attempted it again and she let him take her hand.

Hers was so small inside his. He laid it down on her knee and as he untied the scrap of cloth and started wiping the blood off her finger he marveled at the differences between their skin, their sizes. Hers was so pale and soft, even her fingers were soft. Her nails were short but well kept, and she wore no jewelry. His hands were large, darkly tanned and rough from working with the wood. He wore gloves while he worked outside but he still had calluses and thick skin. 

When the blood was gone and he had made sure it wasn’t bleeding anymore he unwrapped the band aid and put some ointment on it. Then he wrapped her finger gently and sat back on his heels and waited, though for what he didn’t know. Thanks? No, not that. She remained staring down at her now clasped hands. 

He realized he was waiting for her to say something but she didn't, and though he was curious what she was feeling at that moment, he decided not to push it.

Instead he rose and walked out to her porch where he knew she might get a better look at his face, but where he also knew her trout was waiting to be finished. He picked up where she left off as he heard her approach. 

 

Sansa was embarrassed. Not only did she have a panic attack at the memories that had assailed her at the sight of blood, but now her neighbor thought she was afraid of blood.

She wasn't, but that’s how it looked.

And now he was standing on her porch, this huge man using her little knife to clean her small trout for her. She didn’t know what to make of him.

She hadn’t wanted to make eye contact after she flinched from his touch. The memories of the last man who touched her were apparently fresh enough to make her shy away from even someone who wanted to put a band aid on her. Her emotions were in such turmoil that she hadn’t even said Thank You.

She rose, smoothing the front of her shirt and patting back some wisps of hair, and followed him out, knowing that he was hiding as much as she was. She knew it from the way he had kept himself so private over the last few weeks, from the way he had altered his schedule to avoid her. And now, he hid his face from her behind his hair. She could see a beard on his chin from where she stood, but nothing else. His hair was thick, dark. It made a good curtain.

Sansa cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said. She was a couple inches over average height but he still towered over her. She didn’t come up to his shoulder. She wondered why, with him being so big, she wasn’t afraid of him.

He nodded in reply but kept at cleaning the fish. He was done in no time at all, having cleaned it much more efficiently and neatly than she could have done. 

“I’ll pay you for the shirt.” Again she tested the waters of conversation and again he didn’t take the bait. He shook his head, put the knife down, and without looking at her he left her porch and went back to work.

She wasn’t really surprised at his behavior, but she was surprised at the disappointment she’d felt when he didn’t talk. She had felt… ready to be friendly with someone? No that wasn't it. She had felt ready to be friendly with him. Somewhere deep in her heart she felt like they were similar, both hiding from the world, and for a moment she had started to feel a sort of kinship with him.

But he hadn’t wanted to reciprocate, and she supposed that was okay. Friendships in her situation always seemed to lead to heartbreak.

Still, later that day it didn’t stop her from walking over to his property with a hot plate of trout and steamed vegetables. He wasn’t out front so she quietly rounded the corner. 

He was standing beside a huge pile of wood that needed to be chopped, and behind him was a pile of split logs. His ax was buried in the log base he used to split wood on, and he was staring off into space, his back to her.

He was shirtless, and Sansa felt herself flush at the sight. He was really quite magnificent—the t-shirt he had been wearing was hanging from his back pocket and she could see the muscles under his skin. He was covered in fine hair, though she didn’t find it unpleasant. 

Quite the opposite. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man who looked so… masculine.

Wary at the direction of her thoughts and the blush on her cheeks she looked down at the plate and cleared her throat. She heard him turn quickly and she spoke to cover her embarrassment. “I made you dinner,” she said quietly, “To thank you for helping me earlier.” 

She held it out, expecting him to take it. He didn’t, and she ended up holding it out for an awkward amount of time. It didn’t take long to realize he wasn’t going to take it, so she allowed her eyes to travel the distance between their feet, and up his legs, over the trail of hair leading into the waistband of his jeans and the muscled chest covered in dark hair. When her eyes reached the scarring on his right shoulder she almost gasped. But she held it back as she followed the scarring up the side of his neck and to a portion of jaw that had no beard. His hair hung there, thin on that side but still like a curtain. But it wasn’t thick enough to hide the way it pulled down the corner of his eye, or ended just shy of the crown of his head.

“Oh,” said Sansa, dumbfounded. But she realized what he was doing. He was allowing her to look at him, and she got the distinct feeling that he was incredibly uncomfortable. He was frozen, an empty look on his face, perhaps a bit expectant. But what did he expect?

She was sure she knew. He expected her to run, or to gasp in disgust, or to flinch at the sight. 

But Sansa was no stranger to scars, to suffering. Her opinion of him had changed, of which she would likely later sit and examine. But for now she just walked up to him, showing how unafraid she was, and handed him the plate. He took it, his gray gaze lowering to the plate before returning to hers. His beard was thick but she could see soft lips pressed into a firm line. He was steeling himself, she knew. She recognized the same reaction often in herself.

He gave no thanks, nor did she expect him to. She gave him the briefest smile before turning to return to her cabin and her own dinner.

 

Sandor let out the breath he'd been holding. What the hell was he thinking? He of course had no idea that she would come over and see him working, bring him dinner, but he'd had no business standing there letting her look at him. Nor did he owe her anything.

So why had he done it? He knew why—to show her she wasn't the only one with scars. And by the look on her face and her determination to not react upon seeing his, she had received the message.

And she hadn't recoiled, as he had expected. Nor had she made some lame joke like a few people had. No, she had gotten closer, close enough that he'd had to look down at her when she handed him the plate.

She was brave, perhaps more brave than she knew.

And she looked really good walking away, he admitted. She was dangerous and she didn't even know it.

Over the next few days he continued to fill her woodshed and her food treats came more regularly, until it was a daily routine for her to bring something at some time, once a day. 

The day after she saw his scars she brought him chocolate chip cookies. The day after that it was fixings for a French dip. When she brought veggie tacos in lettuce wraps he thought for sure they would be like eating grass, but was pleasantly surprised at the amount of flavor and how he didn't miss the meat in them at all.

He ate like a king that week, and in return he worked hard and filled her woodshed. Come winter the wood would be dry enough that it would burn well in her wood stove.

Then one day he found a knitted hat on his porch railing. It was an extra long dark green beanie meant to be worn with the brim rolled up. There were mistakes, and it certainly didn't look store bought, but when he'd brought it inside and tried it on he had to admire her craftsmanship. It was made of soft yarn and the extra length of folded brim would keep his ears warm. 

One night after midnight he brought over an armload of wood and realized her woodshed was full. For a moment he just stood there. Of course he had known that at some point he would be finished with that task, but he hadn't prepared himself for what he would do next. He walked back to his cabin and put the wood in his own shed, then sat down on his porch to think about it.

He needed to think of the things she seemed to like to do. The first thing he thought of was that she often sat late at night with a campfire on the shore. So that night he went around his property with a wheelbarrow and collected all the large rocks he could find. Then he went to the shore with a shovel and dug down into the dirt where she usually made her campfire. After that he lined the edge of the ring in rocks.

But it seemed too simple. She could have done all that by herself.

He looked around and saw her camping chair leaning against a tree by the path that led back to her cabin. He would see her sitting on that chair, sometimes holding a cup of hot coffee. 

That's it! He went back to his cabin and brought back to the shore a wide log, perhaps 18 inches in diameter, and put it next to where She put her chair. There, now she had a table.

The final touch was to make a pile of firewood next to her fire pit, and leave it for her to find, which she did indeed do that evening. He had waited inside his dark cabin, watching the clock for when she usually headed out for her fire. She walked out of her cabin with her coffee cup, wrapped in that now familiar shawl, the familiar long sleeve shirt, and walked down to the shoreline. She grabbed her chair and turned towards the fire pit and stopped short, nearly tripping. He watched as she stood there, frozen, wondering what was going through her mind. She was just staring at his handiwork.

Then she looked towards his cabin, hair spinning around her as she turned. She obviously was not able to see him through the dark window watching her, but she smiled anyway, so radiantly that he felt a bit of his heart melt. 

It was only for a moment but he caught sight of the woman she probably was at some point in her life, and that she may one day become again. He hadn't known it would make her so happy.

He watched as she put her cup down on the stump and set up her chair next to it. Then she built a fire, slouched down low in her camping chair, rested her head against the back and closed her eyes.

It was enough for him, Knowing that he had done something for her that had made her happy evoked in him feelings he had long thought buried. He felt happy, perhaps even a bit proud. And that smile—damn. He knew at some point in the future he would paint that smile. As he got ready for bed he pictured in his mind the colors he would use, the shading and the use of hues to illustrate not only what was on the outside, but who he imagined her to be on the inside as well.

The next day while he was outside cutting and sanding the log bench he was making, she turned up with a big sandwich and a cup of iced tea. He stopped what he was doing and looked up at her, but she only put it on the workbench beside him and smiled sweetly, turning around and walking back to her cabin. 

He was going to get into trouble. He was sure of it. This doing small things for each other was building into something he hadn't expected, and wasn't sure he wanted. Familiarity. Was he ready for that? For a friend? 

Just now when she'd smiled at him, she had done so in a way that said his scars didn't exist. She looked at him as though he were a... man. 

Well, he was. But to most people he was a monster. A mean hermit. Someone to avoid. 

But to her... She made him feel like he was a guy doing favors for her, and she liked to bring him food. It was all so...

Normal.

He even had the thought, is this what being human felt like? He hadn't felt this way in so long, he wasn't sure how to identify it. He'd felt for the longest time that life was just a means to an end. That he was going to spend the rest of his life out here just waiting to die. He could do it in peace, and he had his paintings, but he would be alone. 

And he wasn't looking for a relationship. If he was truthful with himself he'd acknowledge that that seemed too much to ask of fate. Of Lady Luck. But a friend?

Could he see the neighbor woman as a friend?

He didn't even know her name. The thought struck him. She had been living there for just over a month and he didn't even know her name. It made him feel pretty low, actually, that he had never introduced himself to her. Not because it was his duty to be a courteous neighbor—fuck that. But because she had been so nice to him, so... friendly.

So he knew what the next thing he would do was. He would tell her his name. He was resigned to—perhaps even a smidge looking forward to—breaking down this one small barrier that he had erected so long ago.

And as it turned out, she had created the setting for him to do so. While working outside he watched her surreptitiously from under his hair as she carried her camping chair from her cabin to the shore.

But no, it hadn't been her camping chair. It was a second camping chair.

He had seen that and his heart started to beat faster. Could he do that? Actually join her on the shore? Would she want to talk?

No, she likely wouldn't. She seemed pretty welcome to the idea of no conversation. But as she worked he saw her roll the stump between the chairs and position them so they could both have equal exposure to the fire.

He was conflicted, and suddenly had cold feet. For so long he had built up walls around him and this woman seemed willing if not determined to break them down. He knew she was just being nice, knew she wasn't bent on befriending him just to leave again. But her taking charge and extending this invitation to initiate contact between them had set his nerves on edge and brought out his defense mechanisms. Despite being a man, a large man with an imposing, intimidating presence, he didn’t want to get hurt—more than he wanted to get to know her. He used those feelings to convince himself that he didn’t have a good reason to accept her invitation. 

That night he watched her as she sat in her camping chair. He knew she was waiting, knew she had the same kind of awareness over his habits and activities as he had of hers. But the deep-seated betrayals and rejections were too much for him. As much as he didn't want to hurt her, he couldn't bring himself to go out to her.

He felt like the worst kind of person. She looked at him like he was someone, not something. And he couldn't do it. Couldn't betray her sweetness by soiling it with his temper, or his surly gruffness. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to tell her his name. It felt like he would be binding himself to her.

He kept the lights off in his cabin that night and went to bed.

 

Sansa hadn't known what to expect out of him. Had she expected to be turned down with her open invitation for company? Well, no... But she supposed in a way it shouldn't have surprised her. 

She opted to leave the camping chairs set up the next day to let him know the invitation was still valid, but when she came out of her cabin later that day to bring him another sandwich, she found one of her camping chairs on her porch. There was a cramping feeling in her chest at the sight. She looked, and the other chair was still set up down on the shore.

She didn't know why, but it made her so angry. Perhaps it was because she had started to feel a tiny seed of hope in her heart, that she was going to have a friend. Someone who knew what it was like to be scarred, to be damaged.

She also felt like he had thrown it back in her face.

She wasn't able to stay away completely—she still made him a sandwich that afternoon and she still wanted him to have it, damnit. But when she walked over to where he was working she set the sandwich down with the cold can of soda she'd brought him and walked away without making eye contact. 

She wanted him to know that he had disappointed her. 

Why was it so important to her? Why did it mean so much to her that he accept the invitation? She sat inside her cabin thinking about it that day, knowing full well that when she had moved here, she was happy with not knowing him, not talking to him, not even seeing him. She wanted to be left alone.

That was before. Before they'd worked out this weird truce, before he had filled her woodshed and she'd made him meal after meal. Before she had knitted him that damned hat. Even now the matching scarf was sitting in her basket, nearly done. 

She felt so silly, but really she had only herself to blame. You know what they say about assumptions and all...

The next day she stayed inside her cabin except to hang laundry. She heard him working and ignored him. She refused to have her heart broken after she had just rebuilt it. 

And the next day she went for a swim in one of her tunics and a pair of shorts, refusing to let her life stop because he hadn't accepted her invitation.

The day after that, when she had also realized he hadn't done any small thing for her, left her any surprise, or made any effort to be exposed to her, to end up in her line of vision, she felt the crack.

It was a small crack, probably on the underside of the back of her heart. Small, seemingly insignificant, but even the smallest crack could bring down the biggest ship. 

When had she become dependent on him, she wondered that night when she was laying in her bed? When had she gone from independent, stand on your own two feet woman, to missing his gifts, the small hand she saw of him in her life. Then she had chided herself for being so clueless. She had started to think of him as a fixture in her life. That month had been her new normal, and he had suddenly taken it away.

She was disappointed, even sad, that she had somehow allowed yet another man to control her life, her emotions. But this time it had been different. She had welcomed it, had welcomed his distant company, had greatly appreciated the wood, the fire pit.

Had she been too forward with the chair? Too petty in not bringing him food anymore?

She cried herself to sleep that night, wondering if she would make it in this big, confusing world.

The nightmare hit her swift and hard that night. She went from dreaming about gliding over the lake's surface, weightless and free, to being chased through the dense woods, so dense that she could hear them—Joffrey and his friends—take two steps for every one of hers. Vines grabbed at her arms, roots were determined to trip her. Animals made her jumpy, yellow eyes stared at her from shadowed crevices.

And then hands were on her and she was screaming but she couldn't stop them. They had her on the ground, some of them with sticks to beat her with, some smoking cigarettes, some taking off their belts. Where she thought she had a group of different men surrounding her she realized they were actually all Joffrey, all of them lifting the belts in the air to whip her with, the sticks to beat her with, Joffrey's hands holding her legs and arms down while more Joffrey’s pressed their lit cigarettes to her skin.

She thrashed about but the hands wouldn't leave her and she screamed—oh, how she screamed at the tops of her lungs—knowing no one would hear her. She cried and fought to no avail, and the pain was excruciating.

Hands were on her shoulders now, shaking her while she tried to bat away the lit cigarettes before they touched her thighs. She cried, trying to ignore the hands, desperate to prevent them from pressing the burning coals to her legs. But it was no use, and just as a cigarette made contact on her inner thigh she was suddenly pulled against something hard. A tree?

No, it was warm. Trees weren't warm. The dream was fading but Joffrey's maniacal laughter was echoing in her ears, and she swore she could smell cigarettes, hear the faint whipping of belts on palms. And she cried, she cried harder than she had in a long time as she woke, cradled in strong arms and against a warm chest. She was so overwhelmed by what she had just experienced that she didn't care. 

She beat a fist against the chest with her sobs, so angry that life had led her down that terrible path, that life had allowed her to be tortured and mutilated, that one man had been able to strip away all of her dignity and her femininity until she was the shell of a person.

Joffrey's laughter eventually faded, as did all the smells and sounds that had appeared to her in her dream, and she was so very tired. A hand was stroking her hair, and then it was wiping at her face where she could feel the wetness of her tears. But her eyelids were heavy, and soon she was falling asleep again, her face pressed into the rough skin of his scarred neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't stay away! Here's another chapter for everyone <3 Thank you SO MUCH for the positive vibes and encouragement I've been receiving! I can't tell you all how much it means to me. I had NO IDEA this little story of mine would get such a great reception -- much love to you all!!

Sandor was traumatized the next day. He didn't know what to do, how to act, if he should say anything, do anything for her, never speak to her again because it might be easier on her. Her screams had woken him and no amount of banging on her cabin walls had stopped them. When he had looked in the window she was in the middle of more than a nightmare—she was in a night terror, and he was as equally affected by the possibility of her hurting herself, as he was the uncertainty of what she was going through in her dream. 

Her door was open and at first he wasn't able to wake her. But then the tears had come full force and his heart had broken for her in that moment. He knew she was no longer dreaming, but now it was a sort of day dream, where she was reliving the emotions caused by her trauma. He had never been through this type of psychological trauma. Or rather, he had just handled it differently. He had never woken to night terrors, had never been so completely overcome with grief as she had been in his arms. 

It had chilled him to the core, seeing her like that, but it had also changed something in him. What chilled his core had melted more of his heart, and he now felt that if he had something she wanted, a friendship that would help her, he would give it to her. 

He knew she'd been angry when he had refused her invitation. Then it seemed like she had dwelled on it and had given up on communicating with him at all. It wasn't that he missed the food—he could do without the food, as long as it meant she smiled again. 

So the night after she'd had the night terror he took the camping chair from her porch, set it up the way she'd had it the other day with the two chairs and the stump in between, built a campfire, and he sat. And waited. And waited. And added wood to the fire. And checked his watch and waited some more. 

He had told himself he would wait another twenty minutes when he heard her door open. 

His old reservations were coming back but he tamped them down. She might have need of this, he told himself. And he could do it, for her. 

So when she sat beside him, wrapped in her shawl and covered wrist to ankle in clothing, he hoped she noticed that he had sat on her left, exposing his entire right side to her in the light of the fire. 

As it was, he could not see her in his peripheral vision because of the scar tissue pulling down his right eye, but he felt her eyes on him. He knew she studied him, but they didn't say anything to each other. Then she shifted in her chair and he watched as she kicked off her shoes and brought her feet up onto the chair. Then she caught him off guard by turning her head towards him and resting her cheek on her knee, staring him right in the eyes. 

He looked away almost immediately, didn't want to make that contact with another person. But he had to remind himself that she wasn't just another person. 

She was a scarred shell, just as he was. There was a chance that she knew how he felt—exactly how he felt—about the unfairness of their physical scars. So he turned his gaze back to her, more steady this time, and looked her in the eyes. They were beautiful, pale blue rimmed in dark lashes with delicate, arching brows above them. He didn't want to think she was beautiful, but she was. Didn't want to admit that he was attracted to her, but he was. 

Then she reached into her pocket, her eyes never leaving his, and she pulled out a chocolate peanut butter cup and held it out to him, the barest of a sweet smile forming on her lips. 

It was so sweet, so poignant. She was giving him food, a peace offering. She was thanking him for the night before, for rescuing her and not judging her. And she was telling him not to pull that shit with the camping chairs again. 

"Sansa," she said quietly, and he knew what she was doing. He took a deep breath and let it out his nose. 

"Sandor," he rasped. 

He didn’t smile. She might have thought it odd or impolite, but he hadn’t had reason to smile in years. But perhaps she saw something because for a moment her smile brightened. Then she lifted her head, pulled another chocolate from her pocket and they ate them together, staring out across the surface of the lake. 

 

 

As Sansa sat on the log bench one day that he had made for her porch, one leg drawn underneath her as she sipped her morning coffee, she thought on the changes that had happened over the last month. 

Things were different between them from then on. The fragile friendship they had forged that first month was somewhat cemented during the second. They still didn't speak, which was neither here nor there to Sansa. She knew his name, Sandor, and that felt like a treasure. They didn't do a lot together, but sitting on the shore with a campfire became a nightly routine. Sometimes he would bring coffee, sometimes she would bring smores.

She remembered fondly when she had put a jar of peanut butter with the smores supplies on the stump between them. He had looked at her, which was becoming easier for him now, and waited to see what she would do with it. He was almost like a scared puppy—looking over but not really wanting her to see that he was looking. It twisted her heart that he felt he had to act that way for some reason. 

Though she knew, really. She knew, she understood, and she often felt the same way. 

After toasting her marshmallow she put a scoop of peanut butter on her graham cracker, squished it down with chocolate, and scraped her marshmallow off her stick between the two crackers. Then she handed it to him and he slowly took it from her, as always being careful not to make contact between them. When he took a bite of the dessert he hadn’t said a word, or made any sort of visible reaction. But he had grunted in what could have been described as surprise, and ate the rest while she made one for her. 

She still cooked for him although now sometimes she would take two plates and she would share a meal with him. She especially didn't mind this while he worked without a shirt, as she had grown accustomed easily to the scars but less so to the handsomeness of him. 

The scars provoked an emotional reaction out of her, one that she didn't care to dwell on. She found herself wanting to protect him, to make him happy, to pursue that elusive smile she had yet to see. There had been times where his lips had quirked like he had wanted to smile, but she sometimes thought that perhaps he didn't know how. 

His body on the other hand—he didn't have to do anything to make his body any sexier. He just had to breath, and be alive. He was covered in muscle, likely because he was always working around the yard, making things and fixing things. And the hair that covered him was so unlike anything she had ever seen before, especially in the upper echelon of Florida's uppity gang families. 

At night as she lay in her bed she wondered what it would feel like to touch. There had been that one night a month ago where he had woken her up and cradled her in his arms during her night terror, but she hardly remembered what it had felt like. Only that he had been there for her when she'd needed someone. 

The hair was thick on his arms and on the backs of his hands, covering the skin that covered the muscular build. She often found herself watching him during the day, occasionally blushing when she was caught. 

One amazing thing he had taken to doing was combing his hair back out of his face. Somehow their companionship had given him enough confidence to bare his scars to the daylight, and she was happy for him. They were a part of him, a part of his personality, much like his quiet, untalking nature. And she liked him just the way he was. 

She was brought out of her thoughts by him, suddenly there in front of her, and she blushed as once again she was faced with him shirtless, though this time he held his hand out to her. The look on his face said it was urgent so she put down her cup and quickly went with him, through the bushes to his property, around the cabin, and on a trail behind it that she hadn't known was there. 

His hand was large and warm, and she felt safe with hers in it. His skin was rough but she felt a tingle deep within her that she tried to calm. After all, he was showing her something and she was getting distracted by physical attraction. 

So distracted was she that when he stopped she just ran into his back, and he looked back at her with his one eyebrow furrowed and creases in the middle of his forehead. She was polite enough to look contrite, but when she almost chuckled he held a finger up to his mouth letting her know she had to be quiet. Then he pulled her around so she was standing in front of him. 

About thirty yards away was a mother moose laying in a small meadow, and bouncing around her playfully were two baby moose. Calves, Sansa knew them to be called, but this was the first time she had seen any. Adult moose seemed to be a dime a dozen in Alaska, but babies were more rare. 

Her hands flew to her face to quell a sound of delight, and watched, so happy for this opportunity. They bounded around the mother as her ears flicked away mosquitoes, long gangly legs supporting their tiny bodies. They would find something to sniff or taste and then would bounce off in some random direction, the mother always keeping an eye on them. 

Sansa looked back at Sandor, still smiling widely, and felt a pull in her chest. He looked down at her and held her gaze, those harsh gray eyes now soft and gentle. It was a moment, she was sure of it, and it only last a few seconds. But she had seen something in his eyes, something that made her feel warm inside. Just being that close to him and seeing him not shy away from her gaze was a wonder. 

Forgetting everything she had ever told herself about self-preservation, everything she had convinced herself about independence and solitude and isolation, she reached a hand up and put her palm against his smooth cheek, not waiting for a reaction from him. And she leaned up to press her lips to his scarred cheek, lingering there for perhaps a beat longer than was proper. 

With butterflies in her stomach and a heart that forgot how to beat, she turned back to the moose calves. 

 

 

It was Sandor's turn to be confused. He didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t expected a kiss and he wasn’t sure what to think about it. Dumbfounded, he thought on it as they watched the new family in the meadow. 

Something was changing between them but he couldn't quite tell in what direction it was going. They were becoming friends, he could tell, and he liked that. But he found her watching him probably as many times as he found himself watching her. It was an odd feeling, this attraction to her. It had been so long since he had indulged in fantasies, hopes and dreams, he wasn't sure if he wanted to pursue it. 

But then, she was the first person whom he had felt like this around. He was brushing his hair out of his eyes and found he liked not having to look through it when he worked. He was thinking of things to do for her, things he never thought to do for anyone else. 

If he wasn’t careful he knew he would lose his heart to her, and he’d never get it back. 

That night she made lasagna that he had been able to smell for hours before she finally brought him out a piece. It was delicious, and he told her so when he was done. When she had gone inside to put their dishes in the sink he had made his way down to the shore, a bit early for their late night sitting but ready all the same. He was surprised when she joined him not long after with coffee, and they sat for a while in silence, listening to the frogs croaking and the sound of the breeze in the leaves. 

But after a while she started to shift in her seat and he looked over to see that her eyes were drifting closed. He quietly put out the fire, showing her he was okay with her having to go to bed. She smiled sleepily up at him before walking away. 

He was still awake when she started screaming during the night and he bypassed banging on the wall and went straight into her cabin. She was thrashing just as much as she was the last time. 

He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, willing her to wake up. He said her name, "Sansa! Sansa!" But she was in the midst of a terrible struggle, and she lashed out at him, catching him across the neck with her nails and slicing his forearm. 

"No!... NO!" She screamed, "Not cigarettes!" Sandor's gut clenched. She was dreaming about someone burning her. He wasn't going to let this go on. He put his arms under her legs and back and pulled her up onto his lap, where he wrapped his arms around her in a vice grip and spoke into her ear. 

"Sansa, wake up. Wake up," and her body started to calm. He shushed her but tears were falling and her whole body was shaking. "I'm here, Sansa," he said calmly, willing her to hear his voice. 

He knew she was awake when her arms went around his neck. She buried her face into the smooth side of his neck, sobbing until her body was being wracked with tremors. He kept one arm wrapped firmly around her back and with the other he rubbed her shoulders, her back, stroked her hair, all the while shushing her but no longer speaking. He felt that there was nothing he could say that would make this any better. 

But he didn't have a chance to answer, as her crying quieted and he realized she had gone silent. Her arms still held fast to his neck and her face was still pressed to his skin. She had calmed, and he wanted to give her the option to go back to sleep so he leaned back, showing her he wanted to look at her. 

It broke his heart, seeing the puffy eyes and red cheeks still wet with tears. Then her eyes went down to his neck and the tears started afresh when she saw the line of scratches. Her breath left her and she sunk into herself, softly reaching out with one hand to touch them. "I'm so sorry, Sandor.” 

He didn’t say anything. She saw his arm then, where a trickle of blood threatened to drip onto his jeans. It seemed to startle her fully awake. She quickly got off his lap to retrieve a wet washcloth and wiped the blood off. Then she stood several feet away, still looking at his scratches as though she was afraid to hurt him again. 

She looked afraid and vulnerable, standing there like a frightened doe in her nightgown, arms wrapped around herself. He stood and walked over to her, putting the washcloth on the counter. He put a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. 

He looked into those beautiful blue eyes and wished she felt as strong as he knew she was. Then she surprised him. 

"Would you please... sit with me? For a little while?" She closed her eyes for a couple heartbeats, swallowing loudly, and then opened them again, looking up at him in such a way that he knew he would never say no to her. He nodded, and she laid back down in the bed while he retrieved a chair. 

When he sat beside her she surprised him again by reaching out for him. She had settled into bed, had pulled the covers up and was now looking at him, eyes red rimmed and sad looking. He hesitated, despite knowing his heart was already lost. But he reminded himself to steel his mind against becoming too entwined in her life. It would never work out, no matter how appealing it sounded. 

He took her hand anyway, one of her small hands between both of his, schooling himself on the need for lack of physical touch. But his heart had already convinced him that this was just an extension of the hug that alleviated her nightmares, so it was okay. 

But as her eyes shut, and her breathing slowed, he let her hand slip out of his and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. 

Tomorrow he would ask her about her nightmares. She had spoken tonight about cigarettes, and he remembered the cigarette burns he'd seen on her a few weeks ago. Feeling the red rage build inside him at the thought of someone intentionally hurting her, and seeing the visions of her screaming in pain come unbidden to his mind, he left quickly before he woke her with his growling. 

He hardly slept the rest of the night, for want of revenge against the people who had hurt her. 

 

 

Sansa woke in a fog, aware of what had happened during the night but not quite comprehending the details. As she laid in bed thinking though, they eventually started coming back. This was the second time he had come into her cabin to wake her from a nightmare. She supposed she should be mad that he had taken that liberty two times now, but she couldn’t bring herself to. 

He was a man who encountered a woman having a horrible night terror twice, and twice now had comforted her and left without taking advantage of the situation. She felt like she had gotten to know him well enough over the previous two months that she could feel confidant he was protective of her, and not willing to harm her. 

As she stood and stretched she heard a splash and looked out the front door. He was going for a swim. Perfect timing. She set a pot of water on the stove to boil for coffee and dressed in a burgundy sweater and black leggings. There was no sun and it looked chilly outside, with a foggy mist hovering over the lake’s surface. 

When the coffee was done she poured two cups of coffee and went to corner him on the shore. She had to tell him something. She couldn’t just leave him in the dark about what was going on, why she was having nightmares. She didn’t know if she would tell him the whole truth—that Joffrey was likely still looking for her and wouldn’t ever stop until she was his or dead. 

But something. She had to tell him something. 

It took him a few minutes to come back in from his swim but when he did it was like a scene from a movie. He stood in the water when it was waist deep and as he walked back to the shore, his wet hair plastered to the sides of his face and water running down his bare chest in rivulets, he came through the mist looking like a man who had just spent the night prowling the woods as a werewolf. 

He was an imposing figure, so tall and dark and handsome. She looked the other way as he emerged, wearing nothing but jeans. When she turned back he had pulled on a sweater and had sat next to her in his chair. 

The coffee was still hot, sitting on the stump between their chairs. He picked up the cup closest to him and took a long draw of the hot liquid. She tried not to watch the way his adam’s apple moved as he drank, and how she could see the strong, corded muscles in his neck. But she failed. 

She took a deep breath, reminding herself of her mission but knowing that this was going to be painful. 

She began, "I was engaged to a man named Joffrey Baratheon.” When Sandor didn't show any signs of recognition, she went on to tell him about how she had loved Joffrey in the beginning but then found out during the violence how sick of a person he was. She wasn't able to look at Sandor when she described the abuse she'd suffered, how she had been held hostage by his family, beaten with belts and whips, burned with cigarettes, and punched or kicked until she'd either throw up or pass out. 

When she had thought to stop recounting there she suddenly realized that if Joffrey found her here, he would also find Sandor. It made her want to weep, but she trudged forward with her story, her back to him. 

“The reason why I am here is that I am being hunted,” she told him. “Joffrey won’t rest until I am either dead or his hostage once again. He chased me all the way to Canada so I was hoping he would drop the trail there, but I think that’s too much to ask. I wronged him and he will stop at nothing to get back at me." She turned then and looked at Sandor. "I can't get involved with anyone, I can't even make friends. I will lose them all, to running or to Joffrey, one or the other. And I don't want anything bad to happen to you. So..." 

This was going to be hard. 

"I'm taking back my invitation, and I would prefer that until I leave, we live as strangers." 

Sandor sat holding his cup, water dripping from his still wet jeans underneath the camping chair. He was mulling over her words, working at his jaw and making the scars on that side of his face move and twitch. Then he looked down at his cup, turned it in his hands a few times, and took a long pull of the coffee. When he spoke, it was slow and deliberate. 

"No, Sansa," he said, still looking at his cup. She turned quickly to face him. 

"The choice is not yours to make, Sandor!" She nearly cried. It was the only answer that was unacceptable. "Someday Joffrey will find me, and anyone around me may be caught in the crossfire. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you because of me." She didn't approach him, refused to make physical contact. She didn't want to care, but she did. 

She also knew Sandor wasn't used to talking, so when he went on she found herself listening carefully. 

"I will not, Sansa." He finally looked up, those gray eyes focusing on her as though everything else in the world didn't exist. His gaze was so direct it unnerved her sometimes, but she knew he was used to examining people for their reaction to him. He was doing so now, measuring her, she knew. "You need me," he said. 

Tears sprang to her eyes and she shook her head emphatically, denying it. "No, Sandor, I don't, I don't need anyone.” At her reply he stood but remained where he was. 

"You need me…” he said again, looking away. He looked frustrated, and through her tears she could see his fists clenching and unclenching. Then he looked back at her, his voice low but clear, “The same way I need you.” That shocked Sansa. She stared at him now, mouth open, looking at his face for an explanation for what he had said. None came, but as he stared at her she knew at least partially what he was trying to say. 

They had both come out of their shell a bit while living beside each other. Sansa had actually felt happy again, had learned how to really appreciate the small things, like a hot cup of coffee in the early morning and an evening watching the surface of a lake. 

And Sandor had changed as well—working outside during the day; brushing his hair out of his face; socializing, or at least their version of it. 

"But we could both get hurt," she argued. Joffrey had no rock bottom—the depths of his depravity seemed to go one forever, reaching a new low every day. She closed her eyes as thoughts unbidden came to mind of the different ways he could torture Sandor. 

She heard him walk towards her, close enough to touch and yet he didn’t, but she couldn't move. "Sandor, he's coming for me," she said quietly, crying in earnest now. "He's coming for me and there's no telling what he will do to us if he finds us." 

There was anger on Sandor’s face then. "I will protect you," he said, and when she looked up at him, at the directness of his gaze, she wished she could believe it, hoped that what he said was true. 

He had shown her so much over the last two months. Had given her so many small things, so many gestures of kindness. And oh, how she loved this place. She loved the lake, the trees and the animals. She loved the flowers and everything she woke up to every morning. 

Could she let him remain in her life? Was he really capable of protecting her? She thought of all she would be risking and felt so torn. She grabbed onto the one thought that had been crossing her mind lately whenever she thought of Joffrey. She looked up at Sandor now, thinking of the future. "I need to get a gun, Sandor," she said. 

She felt as though he was more anti-violence, perhaps even a bit of a hippie. She when he backed away and motioned for her to follow him, she had no idea what he was going to show her. They walked up the shore to his cabin and Sandor stopped when they were at his door. She had never been inside his cabin before and she could tell that now he was having reservations about doing so. 

"Sandor, I don't have to go in. You can show me whatever it is you wanted to show me out here on the porch." But he shook his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened the door. 

It took Sansa a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sandor had heavy curtains covering the windows, and one by one he went around and pulled them open. 

His cabin was bigger than hers and she could see that his bedroom was actually a separate room. He went into that room now and came out with a small locked box. She watched as he set it on his small table and used a key from his keychain to open it. 

Inside were three small handguns and he took one out, pulling back the slide and popping out the round that had been in the chamber. Then he slid the clip out of the handle and handed it to her. 

Sansa was shocked. She had just imagined him to be a hippie and here he was, showing her a small collection of handguns. He was obviously offering her one to use, so she timidly reached out and took it from his hand. 

When she held onto the grip and clasped her left fingers over her right, and aimed the gun at the floor, she was afraid—afraid of its power, of the possibility of uses for it, and of whether or not when the time came, would she be able to pull the trigger. 

The gun wasn’t too big or too small, and the grips were worn and smooth. Being careful not to point it at him she looked it over and nodded. 

“Can you teach me how to shoot?” 

Sandor was looking at her intently but he reached for the clip and handed it to her. She lined it up with the bottom of the handle and slid it in until it clicked, looking up at him for approval. He nodded curtly, and then came around behind her to show her where to put her hands on the gun to chamber it. 

After what he had just told her, about her needing him and him needing her, she was feeling a warmth in her heart that was fanned when she felt the heat from his body behind her. And when his arms came around her and he held his right hand over hers on the grips of the gun and guided her hand-over-hand to the slide, the feeling worsened. But thankfully he let go quickly and stood at her side as she chambered the gun by herself. 

He reached over and put his hand on the top of the gun, showing her it was okay to let it go. He took it from her and set it on the table. He took a paper target out of the box and put it on the table beside the gun, along with a box of ammunition. Then he looked at her with those direct gray eyes and said, “Later.” 

That would have been the end of it had his eyes not darted to something behind her and then back to her. She didn’t realize what she was doing until she had already turned around. 

The front corner of his cabin was full of paintings, and she gasped at his work. "You do these?" She asked, not looking at him. She heard him grunt, which she supposed meant Yes, and she walked over to look at them. 

Most of them were landscapes, mostly of the lake and surrounding area. But his representation of them showed a side of him that he kept to himself. In a veritable rainbow of color he had represented the surface of the lake, covered in tiny ripples; the mountains showing rock slides of orange and red; the trees being the most vibrant greens with dark shadows behind splashes of lime and chartreuse. 

"These are so beautiful, Sandor," she breathed almost reverently. Several stacks of canvases leaned against the wall, some of them fifteen or twenty canvases deep. They held the same scenes—the moose and the babies, her small cabin with her car out front, the fire pit on the shore. 

Then she recognized herself in one, from the distance. She was standing on the shore, wearing her white shirt and shorts, her hair blowing in the wind. 

Stunned, she looked up at Sandor. He was looking at her, stony faced. "You painted me," she said, almost an accusation. She didn't know what to say, she was so surprised. He had put her in the middle of one of these rainbow scenes, and despite the drabness of her clothes she fit right in with the color of her hair. 

She looked back at him although she didn’t directly ask for an explanation. But she did want one and he obviously knew it because he said, "First time I saw you." She looked back at the painting. She could see the setting now—the point of view matched what was out the window next to the easel. 

That's when her eyes were drawn to the painting on the easel. Half of it was painted, mostly the background in those vibrant colors he seemed to favor. But lightly drawn in pencil in the center was a woman whom she quickly recognized as herself. "A portrait," she said, looking at him. He nodded. "Of me." He nodded again. "Are you in the habit of painting portraits?" It was a leading question but she didn't care. He was willing to answer her questions so she was going to ask them. 

At this one he shook his head and paused. He looked as if he were trying to come to a decision. It was always hard to tell with him, because he didn’t often voice his thoughts. But he appeared to make up his mind and he walked over to the final stack along the wall. She followed him and he leaned over to flip the first one against his legs. 

The one behind it was her working in her garden with her sun hat on. He had captured her from the side, her gaze intent on her task. The ends of her hat’s ribbons flapped in the breeze, and all around her she was surrounded by the rainbow landscape. It was a stunning painting. 

The second was her from behind watching the moose and her babies. The moose and babies were nearly abstract in their color, but she was clear and crisp. He had included the details in her outfit down to the stitching on the back pockets of her jeans. It was extraordinary. 

The third one was her... in her purple bikini. 

Dread filled her heart. She was shocked that he had seen her so exposed. So far she had only worn the bikini once this summer, and she remembered it was on the day he had gone into town. She knew he had left before she'd braved going outside and also knew he hadn't arrived back home before she had changed back into her clothes. "But how?" She looked from the painting to him and then back again, suddenly feeling very unsure of herself, and very uncomfortable. 

"My truck broke," he said simply, his voice a low rasp. But he was watching her, waiting for a reaction. In the painting she was reaching up to hang her towel from the clothesline, and her hair was wet and dripping. But what brought tears to her eyes was his representation of the scars. They weren't just different hues of her skin color, which he had gotten perfect. They were the same colors that he had painted the landscapes in. Aqua, lime, magenta, bright sky blue, vibrant orange. The cigarette burns under her arms were a rainbow of colors, as were the belt lines across her stomach and the ragged scars from the beatings on her sides and chest. 

She realized that if his truck really had broken down, she never would have heard him come back. And later that day she HAD seen him walk away with a tool box. But it didn't stop her form feeling somewhat violated, even though there was no cause to accuse him of anything devious. 

But what she was seeing on that painting was that he had seen something—everything, in fact—that she had never intended him to see. 

She didn’t know what she was feeling just then. Sadness? Self-consciousness? Confused, embarrassed, and insecure? She started to back up, away from the painting and from him. She was suddenly feeling trapped—trapped in the knowledge that he knew her deepest, darkest secret, the one that she had meticulously kept hidden with clothing from everyone since the day she’d escaped the Baratheon compound. 

Not only that, but he had known—since that day! This whole time. The thought made her cringe. What had they done?—what had they shared?—while he was in possession of this knowledge? 

"No," she said through tears, shaking her head as it started to throb. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the painting. She wished he had never shown it to her, wished he had never seen them, wished he hadn’t painted her scars in the same magnificent colors that he had painted his landscapes. She felt her heart squeezing and she turned and ran out the door. 

 

 

Sandor watched her go but he didn’t go after her. He knew in part what she must have been feeling. He too had scars that he wished the world couldn’t see.

He wondered if he should not have painted her. But then immediately thought no, it was the right thing. Someday, somehow she would know that her scars did not define her. And if he had created a tool that would help get her there, then so be it. 

He looked down at the painting, knowing deep inside him that he would never forget how she looked that day. 

What he had said earlier had been true—he needed her. He had felt more life in him in the last two months than he had felt in years. Despite being scared of needing someone, he was sure that if they explored their connection that they would find it strong. She brought out of him the desire to be nice to people, to her, and to help her and care for her. She made him feel human again, which no one besides perhaps Bill had ever done. 

He pondered her predicament, deciding to give her some time before he attempted to approach her. She had said that this ex-fiance of hers likely wouldn’t rest until he had either killed Sansa or until he’d taken her hostage once again. 

Sandor hadn’t realized long ago that he was a collector of guns but that is what he had become. He preferred hunting rifles but when she had said she needed a gun, he’d taken out the few compact handguns that he knew would fit her hand. She had seemed impressed and comfortable with the first one, so that is the one he would teach her on. That is, if she ever let him near her again. 

And he was going to have to keep tabs on the going’s on in town, and get security cameras, and motion sensors. And if he felt that she was in danger he was going to have to convince her that she needed to stay with him. He sighed heavily. That would be the hardest. 

First things first. He turned on his computer and started researching security systems. 

Later that night when Sansa didn’t come out for their nightly coffee, Sandor felt the loss of her company. He hadn’t realized how much he looked forward every day to the time they spent on the shore, silent but together. It unnerved him. He had been certain that her presence was good for him, but missing someone was new to him. 

She wasn’t outside for her morning coffee the next day. Nor did she come to the shore that night. When she missed a second morning coffee he began to worry. He didn’t want to spy on her so he resisted looking into her cabin windows. But he did knock on her door that afternoon, to no avail. She didn’t answer and he heard no noise from within. 

On the third day she finally appeared while he was outside, sitting on his porch whittling on a stick. He watched as she walked out onto her porch, standing for a moment. He supposed she was getting some fresh air. 

He had a hard time looking at her. She had pulled her hair back in a severe ponytail and she wore a long sleeve shirt and jeans, despite the warm weather. When she turned in his direction he saw she had dark patches under both eyes, and her face looked as though she had forgotten how to smile. His heart twisted at the sight, because he knew he was partially to blame. 

She only looked at him for a few seconds before going back inside. When she came out she was carrying a suitcase. 

Sandor was on his feet immediately, alarmed. His heart was beating fast. A suitcase could only mean that she was leaving. 

“Sansa,” he said, his voice gravelly. She didn’t answer him. She walked to her car, opened the back hatch and put the suitcase in. She ignored him as he approached, walking back into her cabin to retrieve a box of food items. When she came out she laid the box at his feet, then went back inside. 

This time he followed her. She was putting miscellaneous items in another box. “Don’t leave,” he said, but she took it wrong. 

“I am done letting people tell me what to do.” She hadn’t turned to reply but kept going about her business, gathering her hairbrush, tooth brush and toiletries from the bathroom sink. 

Sandor’s heart started to beat faster. He recognized the feeling as panic. “I’m not telling,” he said, wishing she would stop moving. He was having trouble concentrating. 

“You are,” she said coldly. Then she paused, turning her back to him. “I can’t stay here.” 

Her voice was quiet but he heard her loud and clear. “I’m not telling you,” he said again, wishing she would look at him. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. How could he fix this? “I’m asking you,” he said, just short of pleading. He wanted her to stay yet he didn’t want her to know how much she was coming to mean to him. Or did he? No, he couldn’t let down that barrier, expose that weakness. 

Perhaps it was his undoing, because when he looked up her shoulders had fallen in defeat. Her ponytail hung limp down the middle of her back, the back that he knew was covered in scars. He wanted to reach out, to put his hands on her shoulders, to comfort her somehow. But the inclination to do so was so foreign that he remained where he was. 

He knew he had hurt her and that she was running again. With the silence in the room, he could hear his own heartbeat. He saw her as he had painted her—covered in rainbows, colorful and vibrant, if only she would remove the walls she had built up around herself. But then, how could he expect that of her when he wasn’t sure he could expect it of himself? 

He stood off to the side as she carried her last box out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 - He rejects her.
> 
> Chapter 3 - She rejects him.
> 
> Burn snap ka-pow ;-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly picking away at this! Please, comments are very welcome! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented or left kudos, it means so much to me <3

It was for the best, Sansa thought to herself as she closed the hatch of her car. She liked him too much, had come to rely on him too much, and had now felt the fire of that mistake. His actions had hurt her deeply, and she realized she was no longer safe here. Not because of Joffrey or her nightmares, but because… Because… 

She climbed into the driver’s seat of her car and buckled her seat belt. 

She wasn’t safe because of the way her heart turned over at the sight of Sandor in her rearview mirror, standing in the door of her cabin with his hands hanging loosely at his sides. He looked unsure, like he was faced with a problem and didn’t know what to do about it. 

Well, she was no longer his problem. His burden. His project. She would list the cabin online and sell it herself. She would drive somewhere, likely still in Alaska, North perhaps. And she would find some obscure cabin to settle into that didn’t have controlling, sad, handsome neighbors. 

She had left his scarf on the kitchen counter, the one she had knitted for him that matched his hat. She couldn’t stand the thought of bringing it with her, of looking at it every day knowing she had made it for him. 

Let him find that, she thought sadly. And then perhaps a bit bitterly, He can keep it with his paintings. 

That night she found a small side road off the highway, and about a mile down that she found a pull off that led to a barely drivable path. It was there that she parked for the night, locking her doors and reclining her seat. Through the sunroof she could see the Alaskan summer night sky, still looking like twilight despite it being close to midnight. 

With nothing left to do and only her thoughts to keep her company, she gave into them. She gave into visions of Sandor as he watched her drive away. She imagined how he looked the first time she had seen him, rising out of the water like some sexy cave man, scaring the daylights out of her. 

She had liked how he ate everything she’d cooked for him, never complained, and though he never complimented her she had felt his pleasure regardless. And she had felt his pleasure when she’d accepted the fire pit, the bench for her front porch, and the full woodshed, which she supposed now would be left to rot. Maybe Sandor could use it next winter. 

She had also felt his pleasure when she’d seen his paintings, had complimented him on his talent. His paintings were truly remarkable, and if she’d had a house she would have wanted to fill her walls with them. 

Her mind brought up the image of the painting of her in her swimsuit, and with a start she realized she had also felt his pleasure at that. But not pleasure at her reaction. Before she had reacted so negatively towards it, she felt that he had been—what? Proud? Pleased? He was happy with the painting. She also knew this because of what the painting was, and what it represented. He had caught her in a private moment, hanging her towel on the clothesline, and had portrayed her scars as something beautiful. Those colors he had used, the way he used different tones as shadows and had made the scars come alive—his talent was inarguable. 

And she had to admit to herself now, if she could put aside the feeling of being trapped and caught off guard, she could see the painting in her mind more clearly for what it in fact was—a celebration of her physical traits, the parts of her body that had formed the inside of her heart, and the beautiful nature of what those scars represented to him. 

Sansa suddenly couldn’t breathe, a sad realization dawning. 

She saw the connection now, the symbolism behind the rainbow of scars that she had missed. His rainbow representation of her scars did not in fact mirror the way he felt about his. She was certain he felt as though he was still a monster, an outcast that no one would ever like or respect. She’d heard the stories about him, had seen the revulsion on the townspeople’s faces as they spoke about “That man.” He wasn’t even a name to them. 

And she had delivered to him the upmost stinging rejection. 

She felt the crack in her heart become a Sandor-shaped fissure. If she set aside the embarrassment of him having seen her like that, of him having discovered the secret she’d kept hidden from the world, she could see her part in the crumbling of her association with him. It no longer appeared to her that it was all his fault, and that he was the only one who had wronged her. She had wronged him as well. 

She thought of his face now, thought of the way the scars reached up into his scalp where the sparse hair began to thicken. He had combed some of it over to cover the scar and had left much of it hanging in his face when she had first seen him. Even on the day when she had cut her finger and had seen him later, after he’d bandaged it for her, while he was working outside. He had stood still, allowing her to get a good look at him. And she had done that—she’d fully seen his scars for the first time, seen the extent of them as they travelled down his neck to the top of his shoulder. 

He had made himself vulnerable for her then, and he had done it again when he had showed her his paintings. And she’d run from him. After all he had done for her, she had run from him. 

She started to cry, feeling convicted of the worse offense—the same offense that would have crushed her had it come from him. Not only that, but he had offered her his protection from the Baratheon’s. 

She had to cut off her own thoughts at that, lest she lose herself in grief. There was no way she could keep running. She had to recognize that cabin, Sandor, their small corner of Alaska for what it was—a place to rest, perhaps to grow roots. A place to find herself. 

She would go back in the morning, she decided. She would go back, and she would ask him to forgive her. Beg if she had to, because he was her one and only friend. And he needed her. Just like she needed him. 

It took her six hours to drive back. His truck was gone when she arrived back at the cabin. Everything was just as she’d left it, except the scarf was gone. 

Just as well, she thought to herself. She had no idea what she was going to say, hadn’t rehearsed anything at all on the way back. She had turned the music up in the car, probably to drown out her thoughts. 

After she had brought her suitcase and boxes back inside the cabin she went out to the shore where she had left the camping chairs. It was early afternoon and the sun was beating down on the lake with a vengeance. She sat, but as she waited for him to return a thought came to her—an idea. It terrified her, what she had thought of doing. And she wasn’t sure if she could follow through, but once the seed had been planted she found herself determined to watch it grow. 

She got up from her chair and walked back to her cabin, feeling as though her heart was going to beat out of her chest. 

 

Sandor slowed and then stopped his truck at the fork in the driveway. Sansa’s car was parked in front of her cabin. 

He sat there, truck idling, while a thousand thoughts came pouring forth inside his mind. Did she forget something? Was she arranging the sale of the cabin? Did she want to tell him to destroy the paintings? Every worst case scenario rolled around in his mind as he stared at her car. 

She was nowhere in sight so he suspected she was inside her cabin doing something. Before he decided to entertain any positive possibilities for her return he drove the remainder of his driveway and parked. He only stopped moving once he had unloaded all of his groceries in the cabin and had a moment to ponder what to do next. 

His visit with Bill had gone well. Sandor felt that he had said more than what he usually did, and Bill had seemed happy about that. If they were closer Sandor might view him as a father figure, but they weren’t, so he didn’t. Lucy doted on him, though, and had sent him home with an enormous casserole that would easily feed eight people. 

Grocery shopping that morning had also gone more smoothly than normal, as he found himself not bothering with looking for people’s reactions to him. He had studied his list while pushing his cart and had gathered his groceries and a few extras. Then he’d made it to the checkout line before he realized what had—or hadn’t—happened. 

The cashier was a girl named Kristy whom he had seen before, and he did in fact notice that she was fairly quiet while ringing up his groceries. So Instead of attempting to look as menacing as possible, he asked her in a quiet voice to please double bag the cans. 

If he had been the smiling type he would have done it then at her reaction to hearing him speak. She had frozen, one hand on the edge of the open bag and one hand holding the can of soup she had just scanned. Her mouth was also open showing two rows of full braces, and he’d glanced up at her though not unkindly, which had snapped her out of her trance. She then said, “Yes, sir,” and he had even thought that she had perhaps smiled a bit, before he looked away and waited for her to finish. 

Despite the sadness of Sansa leaving he had realized overnight that since she’d arrived and their interactions had grown more frequent, he had been feeling a bit more human, and he supposed he should start acting like it. It was a small change, infinitesimal at best, but he felt it all the same.

But now , sitting in his truck faced with her parked car in her driveway, he felt like an animal again. He couldn’t hold off the waves of emotion as they rolled over him—anger, confusion, happiness, uncertainty. He didn’t want to hope that she had returned for good, because he didn’t think he could retain his hold on his humanity if she left again. 

He decided to wait on the shore to see if she would see him and come out, much the same way she had initially tried to get to know him. He remembered that day well—she had waited for him, and he had rejected her by bringing her back her chair. That seemed so long ago. But he remembered his change of heart as a couple days later he had waited for her, and she had graced him with her presence. 

So now he sat in the chair she had left for him that day, always on her left so she could see his scars. It had taken him a while to get used to that, but he had, and she seemed to like it that way. He wondered if she had liked it because it was a reminder that she wasn’t the only one with visible wounds. 

As he stared out at the water he suddenly saw movement in the distance, and he realized it was a person swimming. It took a few minutes for him to make out the pale, pale skin and the red hair, now darkened with water. His heart skipped a beat, and he held onto the armrests of the camping chair with a white knuckled grip. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing, and yet… He swallowed. 

Sansa drew closer to the shore but slowed in the water when she saw him on the chair. He could see uncertainty in her face as she hovered just past where she would be able to touch the bottom of the lake. As he watched she took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, and she swam a bit further in. 

“Sandor,” she said when she stopped, now standing in neck-deep water. 

“Sansa,” he replied from thirty feet away. He remained calm on the outside but his heart was going to explode if she didn’t do something, say something. What he really wanted to do was strip off his clothes and go join her in the water, but he felt that they needed to move slowly. If she was swimming in the lake—uncovered, no less—than there was more to this than a temporary return. 

But now she seemed unsure of herself, and he thought he knew why. She was wearing her bikini. But he felt that now, two months after meeting and having spent so much time together, she had chosen to wear it knowing there was a possibility that he would come home and see her. 

So he remained where he was sitting, and waited to see if he was right. Sansa looked down at the water in front of her, closed her eyes, looked off to the side and stared into the distance. She sighed, and he was starting to wonder if he was wrong when he saw her rise out of the water by a few inches. Her neck was exposed, and then the tops of her shoulders before she stopped. 

He could see scars now, thin strips of off-colored skin crisscrossing the tops of her shoulders. He felt the now familiar rage, saw red and gripped the armrests again before he took a deep breath and calmed himself. Rather, he focused on what she was doing, and how brave she was being. 

She walked a few more feet and the water stopped just under her breasts. Her upper arms were striped with scarring, and she had angry welts of scar tissue, big and small, on her chest. She had gathered her hair at the nape of her neck in a thick braid so she hid nothing. 

She stopped again, gathering courage he guessed. Then she slowly began to walk, exposing inch after inch of beautiful ivory skin until she stood just past the water line. Only then did she look up at him, and he knew the droplets on her face were tears and not water. 

He stood then and as he walked towards her she stood there, shoulders down and looking completely dejected. He wanted to ask her what she was feeling, why she looked like she was beaten, like she had lost. She was alive, vibrant and striking, brave and determined. He wanted to tell her that she had no reason to cower. But instead he reached out and although she flinched, she didn’t shy away when he traced a scar above her belly button with his finger. His touch was light but she closed her eyes and let him do it. 

These scars were the reason she’d left. He remembered the horror on her face when she had realized he’d seen her in her bathing suit, and he almost cringed. But no, he schooled his face and now touched her, worshipped her skin, scars and all. His brave beauty, came the thought unbidden, and he was glad for her closed eyes. There was no telling what emotion she would have seen on his face. 

His hand lifted to touch a cigarette burn scar just under the band of her bikini top on her side and she shivered, goose bumps prickling her skin. Then he touched a more faded scar on her upper arm, wondering how long ago that one must have happened to be so pale. 

He heard her sharp intake of breath, eyes still closed, when he touched a round welt on her sternum. He wondered at what could have made the scar. That he didn’t know spoke to the malevolence of her ex-fiancé. 

Finally he put a finger under her chin to tilt her face upwards. She kept her eyes closed, tears still trickling out of the corners. Her silent crying was going to break him. How often had she gone through that—having to cry silently so no one would hear her, so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself? 

“Sansa,” he said as his finger fell away. Her beautiful blue eyes opened slowly, meeting his gaze. He brought his hand back up but hesitated, letting it hover between them for a moment before he combed his fingers through his hair. He pulled it away from his face and let it fall back, completely exposing his scar to her in the bright sunlight. He pressed his lips together, as self-conscious of his scars as she was of hers, but he didn’t move. His eyes had left hers while he moved his hair and now they had trouble reconnecting. But he forced himself to, knowing he had to do this for her. 

He had shocked her. Her lips parted and her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. But he nodded once, letting her know that it was now her turn. He steeled himself for her touch, not knowing exactly what he was doing, or specifically why, other than for her benefit. And he didn’t know how, either. But when her tears stopped and the corners of her mouth turned upwards for a brief second in a shocked smIle before her lips resumed their surprised expression, he felt that it was just right—the right thing to do. It didn’t matter that he felt like a monster, someone to be afraid of. He had the barest whisper of a thought circulating in his mind that if he could see her scars for something beautiful, as an extension of her and everything that made her the beautiful person she was, than maybe she could look upon his scars at least without revulsion, if not appreciably.

So when her hand slowly, ever so slowly, crept up towards his face he closed his eyes, and flinched at the contact despite trying hard not to because he felt not one but both of her hands touching him. While her left fingers slid over the edge of his thick hair, her right fingers stroked its length softly until she had let the very ends pass through her fingertips. The sensation made his scalp tingle, and as he unconsciously growled low, he had to admit to himself that it felt really good. 

When one hand touched something, the other hand mirrored it. As her left hand trailed over the scar where his eyebrow would have been, and to the mottled skin that pulled down his eye at the corner, her right hand followed the path of his other eyebrow, and felt the delicate skin of his eyelid. She touched his burnt cheek with her fingertips while the others ran over his beard, also bringing it through her fingertips as she had done with his hair. 

Then as her right hand reached into his hair and combed it back away from his ear, her left hand was gliding over the bump that had once been his ear, feeling the ridges and scarring, feeling the crevices with her sensitive fingertips. 

Sandor had never imagined what this would feel like—had never imagined himself ever allowing someone to see or feel him in this manner. And even more shocking was what it was making him feel, and how it was making him feel. Known. Met. Understood. Valued. Sensitive. Stimulated. Aroused. He could have wept had he had the ability to do so. 

Her fingertips trailed down the left side of his neck, over where his beard ended and the hair on his neck began; as her other fingers traced the rough skin to the neck of his shirt. Then he felt all of her fingers as she combed them simultaneously down both sides of his throat, feeling the dual sensation of smooth hair and rough, bare skin. He felt them continue downwards over the neck of his shirt until they fell away before reaching his stomach. 

It was then that he opened his eyes and looked at her. She was looking at him with an odd look on her face, one that he would have called satisfaction had he not known her better. No, it looked more like contentment, as though they had just come to an understanding. He didn’t know if he should say anything, but what came out was a short, growled, “Hmm.” 

The moment appeared to be over, and she was still standing in front of him dripping wet, which was going to do certain things to his body if he didn’t do something about it. So he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Then he turned it right side out, held it out to her with the neckline open and helped her slide it on. He turned from her and kicked off his shoes and socks. A cold swim was what he needed right now. 

 

 

Sansa stood watching him swim towards the middle of the lake, his muscular back sparkling under the ripple of the waves he was creating. The moment would have been serene, perfect even, if it weren’t for her tumultuous thoughts. 

He had touched her scars, touched them all over her body, in a way that reminded her of his paintings—reverently, respectfully. And then he had let her touch him, letting her know there was no need to ask for forgiveness. That he had made himself vulnerable for her was an incredibly sweet gesture. She knew that he was appreciative of her exposing herself to him like that, and she was sure he would take it for the apology it was meant to be. But the gift he had given her in return was breaking the walls around her heart wide open, and she wasn’t feeling like she had to protect herself from it. From him. 

She understood why she had had to come back now. She did in fact need him, and she was sure that he needed her. They meant hope to one another, hope in their scars, hope because of and in spite of their scars. It was so amazingly mutual that she felt she would be overcome with emotion if she continued to think on it. 

So instead she brought the neck of the shirt up to her face and inhaled deeply. She had never smelled a more comforting or arousing smell than she did then, his own masculine and musky scent. She didn't smell any cologne, just Sandor. 

Overwhelmed by the events of the morning, she let the shirt fall and walked back to her cabin, ready to shower and unpack. It was much too hot for her to be languishing in the sun and she had work to do. 

Later when she had realized she didn’t have any food to make a decent dinner she’d opened her cabin door to ask Sandor if he still had the box of food she’d given him only to find it on her porch. It had made her smile, and even more motivated to make him a nice dinner tonight. But sitting on top of the box was a note that read, “I’ll bring dinner tonight.” 

Well, that was a first, she thought. She hadn’t known he could cook. So at dinner time when she would normally bring him a plate of food or a container of goodies, he showed up at her door holding two plates of hot casserole. 

It was him that looked delicious, though. She reddened as her thoughts turned erotic, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t opened her heart to a man since she had met Joffrey, and knowing there was a possibility that that was exactly what was happening with Sandor made her feel a bit embarrassed, and more than a bit warm. 

She could look on him for hours, she knew. His scars were a part of him just as hers were a part of her, but they made him whole in her mind, the only package of Sandor that she would ever want. He was who he was because of those scars, much in the same way, she supposed, that she was because of hers. 

She liked how thick his hair was, and it was now pulled back a bit to expose his face to her. She knew from earlier that it was soft, and had seen him shiver when she had run her fingers through it. That bit of information would be forever stored in her mind. 

His bear was as thick, up until the line where his scar began. His mustache was trimmed by remained long and blended well into his beard at the corners. And he didn’t trim it or keep it perfect, which she also liked. She’d had enough of vain men for a lifetime, and she was ready to explore the indistinct line between the edge of his bears and the fine hair that travelled down his neck and into his shirt. 

But his lips—she glanced at them now, his lower lip exposed underneath his mustache. It looked soft, though he often kept them pressed together firmly. She was just wondering if it would feel soft against hers when she realized the direction of her thoughts and blushed in earnest. “Come in, come in,” she said, watching as his towering form had to duck to get in the door. Just one more thing she was beginning to like about him. 

They sat at her small table, one on either side, and ate in silence after she had gotten them drinks. She had some things to say and she decided this intimate setting would be a good start. He wasn’t trapped by any means but she felt that she would be forced to get out the words here in her own cabin, where she couldn’t turn tail and run. “Sandor?” she said quietly. He looked up from his plate of casserole, a forkful of food poised above his plate. Seeing that she had gotten her attention she took a deep breath. 

“Can I sit for you while you finish the portrait of me?” 

He slowly lowered his fork back to his plate and sat up straight, staring at her. He looked as though he were trying to decide if it was a trick so she went on, stumbling over her words. “I mean, I know how I reacted earlier and how bad it looked, and I know I shouldn’t have been so upset over the one painting.” She blushed at the memory of it, knowing he had had to hold a brush and control the lines to capture the essence of her—the curve of her waist, the front of her bikini top, her belly button. How he must have thought about her, studied her in his mind to get the painting to be such a perfect representation of her. He had even gotten the placement of scars accurate. Even now as she pictured him painting the curve of her breast she thought she could almost feel the bristles trail across her skin.

“I’m sorry for reacting the way I did,” she continued, pushing that thought out of her mind, “But I’d really like to see the portrait finished. I think… I think your work is beautiful, Sandor. I love the way you use color, the range of hues that you use to describe detail. They’re really quite something.” She was rambling and she knew it, so she tried to get back on course. “I just want to do that for you, and for me I suppose. I would really like to see you work, and to see what the portrait will look like.” 

Sandor was still staring at her, making her slightly uncomfortable. She wished she could read his thoughts, but she knew he at least wasn’t mad or upset. She just needed to wait for his reply, so she went back to eating her food. She was a little bit confused when he did as well, but decided he would give her an answer when he was ready to. 

When they had finished eating Sansa gathered their plates and Sandor started a pot of coffee in her coffee maker. She surmised that it was time to head to the lake shore so she grabbed her s’mores supplies as well. When he looked at her with his eyebrow raised she just smiled at him. 

She liked how they didn’t need words to communicate. They both seemed adequately prepared to care for each others needs. Having known him for two months now, she was more satisfied with their relationship—or lack of, really—than she ever had with Joffrey. With Joffrey there had always been expectations, even before he had been physically violent. She had needed to dress a certain way, act a certain way, give him just the exact amount of physical touch in public and in private or he would give her a verbal thrashing, no matter who was standing nearby or listening. It had been horrible, so demeaning that she had begun to lose herself. 

But with Sandor she was free to be herself, free to learn how to cook and knit, how to enjoy the beauty of nature and another’s silent company. After a while when she was slouching in her chair, her head resting on the back as she liked to do, having nearly forgotten that just this morning she’d come back from running away from this place. She closed her eyes as the soft breeze coming off the lake sent tendrils of her hair to tickling her face. There had never been a more relaxing moment, had never been a place on earth where she wanted to be more. 

She turned her head to Sandor and found him looking at her, and was only slightly self-conscious. She smiled shyly at him, blinking against the hair that was determined to get into her eyes. She brought a hand up to pull it away from her face. 

“I will paint you,” he said gruffly, his unsmiling gaze intent on her face. They were so close, with only a log between them, that she could have reached out to touch him. 

And not that she didn’t want to, but it was too soon. They had touched, several times in fact, though most of them only due to circumstances. Today they had willingly touched, touched each other with purpose, and that was enough for now. Somehow she would breach that barrier between them, because she was certain that he wouldn’t. He was the type to let her decide what she wanted to do or not do with her body, and the thought made her smile at him even more. Then she looked back out across the lake, content in the knowledge that beside her sat a true gentleman, a man of the very best kind, whom she was very lucky to have met. 

 

 

Sandor took a scoop of peanut butter and put it on his cracker before assembling the s’more. He never would have known how good that tasted had he not met Sansa. 

She was sitting beside him on her chair eating her s’more, looking over the water’s surface in the late evening daylight. Her hair was down, and it still shown without sunlight hitting it. He had imagined earlier what it would have felt to run his fingers through it the way she had done to his, but didn’t know if he would ever get the opportunity. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen between them, despite knowing what he wanted to happen between them, so he contented himself to sit in her company and enjoy the evening. 

She had asked him to paint her, to finish the portrait. Part of him wondered if that was wise but after leaving for the night she had seemed to come back with a whole new outlook on him, on the paintings, and apparently her future here in her cabin. So perhaps it would end well. 

And it did indeed, as the next morning she knocked on his door while he was working. When he opened it he’d had his hair pulled back behind his head, and though she at first looked at him in surprise, she then gave him a radiant smile that said she approved. 

He directed her to a tall stool he’d set up beside his easel, positioned so that she was sitting next to a window with ample light coming in. He had to put his fingers on her knees to show her he wanted her to turn a bit one way, and then again on the side of her chin to have her turn her face so the light was hitting it perfect. And then he had to stare at her for a few moments, because she was absolutely stunning. The way the sun shown through her eyes made them sparkle, and she had the barest expectant smile on her face. Combined, the effect made her look like they were about to share a secret, that what he was about to do was incredibly intimate—and that she liked it. 

He had all of his paints out as he had been painting before she’d arrived, so he just switched out the paintings on the easel. Then he held his palette, brush poised, and glanced at her once again before starting. 

She sat beautifully, but he was distracted. He was distracted by her beauty, and her small smile on the lips he was beginning to realize he’d like to taste. Her fine cheekbones and the shadows they made, and the blue eyes that never left him as he painted. Today she wore a light green top with wide sleeves that reached just past her elbows. But the neckline was wide, and he could see the barest hints of scars peeping out from under the seam. 

He had been studying her for months, and he felt like he knew every curve of her body, every facial expression and the way her body moved. He knew she played with her hair when deep in thought, liked to try new things, and was braver than anyone he had ever met. 

But she also unnerved him with her gaze, as she was doing now. He suspected he had asked for that, accepting her request to finish the painting with a live session. But in his peripheral vision he could see her eyes roaming over him—his face, scars, neck, chest, his arms as they moved, and lower. He let his eyes watch her face as her eyes slid over his body all the way down to his boots, but looked back at the painting before her eyes returned. 

When she’d moved in he had never suspected he would find her attractive, or that she would bring him out of his cave of darkness, or that he would find that he needed her. And he did—he needed her presence, her smile, her encouragement. She had left and there had been a hole in his life where she had been. Interactions had been easier from having known her, but he had missed her terribly. 

He was having difficulty painting. His thoughts weren’t centered on his work, but instead on her. He wasn’t focused on his use of color, but instead on her. He’d rather spend the next couple hours looking at her and not the painting. This just wasn’t going to work. 

He put his palette down on the table next to him, noting her puzzled expression. Then he pulled up a second stool, lower than hers, to sit in front of her. 

He didn’t know what he was doing, was only moving based on instinct and by what felt good. And at that moment, with her sitting there so perfectly and with so many emotions roiling in his mind, what felt right was to take one of her hands in his and to rest his forehead against their clasped hands. 

He didn’t have anything to say, but felt that doing this would show her… something. It would show his affection for her. It would show her how she had taught him that it was okay to touch someone. And it would show her that he had chosen her to be the one he wished to touch. Her smooth skin was soft and cool against his forehead, and before he knew what he was doing he was pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. 

Her gasp brought him out of his reverie and he quickly stood, shocked that he had done that. His mouth opened and closed, and he wanted to say something, to apologize. But in the end he didn’t. He was afraid of what she was making him feel. He had always wanted to be alone, had wanted to hide from the world and now she was bringing down walls he had struggled to erect. But this one—physical touch—was deep. This wall reached down to his soul and he’d been shocked to realize he was the one to take the first step. 

He hadn’t meant to kiss her, and suddenly his cabin was much too small for the both of them. He turned and walked out the door, allowing his long strides to carry him down the shore and in the opposite direction of their campfire. 

He hadn’t been walking for more than a minute when he heard her coming up behind him. “Sandor!” she called, but he didn’t want to stop. He needed her, but he didn’t want to need her. He desired her, but he didn’t want to. His emotions warred within him and he was on the verge of—what? Leaving? Isn’t that what he was doing? He had walked away from her, and he was ashamed. 

He turned suddenly and she stopped, sending up a puff of sand, hair draped over her shoulders. “I can’t do this,” he said slowly and plaintively, taking a few steps back from her. But even as he said it he felt his own heart twisting. Sansa shook her head, a look of combined confusion and determination on her face. 

“Yes, you can, Sandor,” she said, taking a few steps towards him. Her hands were in fists. “I know what’s going on.” 

He couldn’t look at her so instead he focused out on the water, staring at nothing. She went on. 

“You said it yourself—you need me. And I need you, Sandor. I know that now. I need you because…” When she paused he looked back at her and she was staring down at her hands. “I need you because you make me feel. You remind me that I’m still a person.” She took a couple more steps towards him. He wanted to believe her words but it was hard, so hard to hear that someone felt this way about him. “You need me because of your scars.” He lifted an eyebrow but she held up her hand. “Don’t you see? You need me because of your scars and I need you because of mine. Do you think its coincidence that I’m here? That two broken people were put into each other’s paths?” 

She stepped closer now, close enough to reach out and touch him but she didn’t. “I think…” She hesitated, but reached out to take his hand in both of hers. “I think we should try—try and see where this goes.” When she looked up at him he saw her nervous smile, and he saw that she was just as scared as he was. He knew what it must be costing her to speak to him this way. He closed his eyes, enjoying the way her hands felt around his, and he sighed heavily. She asked, “Won't you please try with me?” 

He returned his gaze to her, more unsure of the future than he had ever been. But… what she was offering was so tempting. A friend. Companionship. Possibly more. He supposed she was right—they owed it to each other and to themselves to try. And she might be right that it wasn’t coincidence that the two of them—two scarred, broken people determined to hide from the world—had practically landed in each other’s laps. 

They’d had so many close calls with touching already, that he supposed taking this to the next level would be possible. There had been her nightmare when he had held her, and the day she cut her finger and had fainted. Then he’d held her hand the day he showed her the moose and she had kissed his scarred cheek. And of course the second time he’d woken her from a nightmare, and the day he had shown her how to use a gun. 

At that memory he flinched. He didn’t want to think about how badly he had hurt her with that painting on that same day. 

So when she turned towards the water and entwined her fingers in his, standing so close that their arms were resting against each other, he turned as well. They stood there, feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies as they looked out over the water.

“What do you think?” She asked. Then he heard the smile in her voice as she asked him, “Does this feel good?” 

He looked over at her small smile though he noted that she wasn’t looking at him. Her smile could have been described as a smirk, and he snorted. But he caught himself thinking of all the interpretations of the word Good and nodded. He would think of them another time. 

Then, as an afterthought he decided to say, “It feels good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was somewhat of a sedate chapter, but there's more to come. They needed a Coming Together moment, and Chapter 4 was it. I struggle in these moments to not let their relationship jump into the physical, because that's the typical path a story takes in my mind. So bear with me as I flesh this out a bit, and I give credence to the emotions simmering below the surface :-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Much nail biting*
> 
> I hope you like this update <3

Nearly a month later as Sansa worked in her small garden, she hummed to herself, lost in thought. Off to the side of her small plot sat Sandor, hair pulled back, holding onto a palette of paint. He was painting her, as he had done several times over the past month, though it had only been the last three paintings that were outside. 

The first had been in the camping chair. When she had gone out to have her morning coffee, he had instead come out holding an easel and a canvas. She remembered his face—so soft and caring, and she had known he was asking her permission by standing at the tree line, waiting for her to say something. She would never have been able to say no. 

So they had sat, he facing her and her facing the lake, as she sipped her coffee, occasionally glancing over at him, smiling. If he was concentrating particularly hard while she did it he would raise his eyebrow at her and she would chuckle, resuming the pose. It never mattered that he didn’t smile, he showed his pleasure in different ways. 

The second time he had painted her, she was laying in a hammock reading a book. That day she had worn a shirt she had bought in town, the only tank top she owned—she’d decided to do a trial run at the cabin—along with her shorts. The hammock was one of the random acts of kindness he was still doing for her, and he had surprised her by having it hung up in front of her cabin one day when she’d come out for her morning coffee. 

On the day he had found her reading in it, he approached her for one reason or another, but upon seeing her had immediately returned to his cabin to retrieve his painting supplies. When he’d returned he had done it again—stood off to the side waiting for her welcoming smile, which she had freely given. She was beginning to love seeing him set up for a painting that he was looking forward to starting, and she had noticed that that was increasingly her. 

She also enjoyed watching him paint. He was so focused, studying his painting intently between long bouts of studying her. His gray eyes were intense, and as he worked he would sometimes absentmindedly rub at his scarred cheek. Every once in a while he would get up and approach her to arrange a tendril of hair or a fold of clothing. On this day he had put a hand under one of her legs, startling her, but he had just lifted the knee, giving her pose a more casual look. Then he had gone back to sitting on his stool, palette and brush in hand. 

She remembered a few days later how he’d found her sitting on her porch, staring off into the distance. She had been reclined on the bench he had made, legs crossed, one arm laying across her lap and one on the back of the bench, her head leaning against her fist. He had left her just the way she was, except he’d pulled her hair over one shoulder. As he did so the backs of his fingers had grazed her breast through her shirt and she’d watched him swallow, though it had likely the same effect on her. Thank God for padded bras, because she’d gotten goosebumps and had felt her nipples tighten. 

That painting session had been hard. She had to sit there staring at him as he worked, watching his muscular forearms move as he painted, stared at the strong thighs encased in sturdy jeans. His hair had fallen into his face and he hadn’t fixed it, which caused her the strong inclination to do so herself. It had been a long time since she had touched his hair, and she distinctly remembered wanting to do it again. 

So here she was again, wearing her chocolate-brown tank top, knowing he could clearly see the scars, with her hair drawn into a ponytail over her shoulder, and under the shade of her tan sun hat. She thought less and less about the scars these days, just as his had sort of melted into him. She saw him when she looked at him—handsome, rugged, the thick beard and long hair. She knew the kind of man he was, the kind of gentle, caring person she had needed for so long. And that was more than enough. 

As she worked gently to pull out all the small weeds under her plants she thought on the lack of physical touching they had done. There had been the occasional brushing of hands, a hand on her back to guide her, or her picking a piece of food off his shirt for him. And as of the last few days she had wanted to progress in that area, but wasn’t sure how. She was shy, as was he, so she knew she would have to suck it up and be brave—make the first move. But what would that move be? 

At that moment Sandor put his hands on his thighs, still holding the palette and the brushes. Then he put those items down to turn the painting so she could see. 

It was amazing. He had captured the dappled sunlight as it came through the trees high above her, and had created an ethereal scene of color out of her kneeling in the garden. The background wasn’t done yet but she knew he could do that any time from memory. He seemed to like focusing on the main subject--her—while the lighting was best. 

“It’s beautiful, Sandor,” she said in earnest, pleased with his work. She got up for a closer look and stood in front of him so they could look at it together. She was aware of his presence, the proximity of his body. She didn’t have to look to know she stood very close to his thigh. 

“You’ve made me look so happy, and… I guess I am, hmm?” She looked at him, really looked at him now, and wondered at the enigma that was Sandor. Such a talented artist who had been dealt a bad hand in life, and he had taken that bad hand and had hid from the world. It was sad, and yet she knew if he hadn’t lived life the way he had, she would never have met him. 

She smiled slowly at him, drawing a corner of her lower lip under her teeth. She really was happier with him, happier than she had ever been. She watched as he looked at her lips, studying her as if her smile was a riddle to be solved, and she realized the corners of his were also turned upward. 

Mercy, but he was smiling! It transformed his face, even though it was the barest hint of a smile. It revealed faint laugh lines on either side of his mouth, though she didn’t think that was the appropriate title for them because she knew he never laughed. But even so, it was like a miracle was happening, and she could have cried at the sight. 

But instead she looked intently at his mouth and slowly, hesitantly, lifted her fingertips to his lips, feeling the tickle of facial hair against the sensitive pads of her fingers. As though blind and exploring a texture for the first time, she traced his lower lip with her index finger, from one side to the other, feeling its smoothness and its softness. She felt her smile melt away and knew that what she was doing was perhaps dangerous. She whispered his name, though she could feel herself looking at his mouth with as much wonder as she looked at his paintings. 

His eyes moved upwards as his smile faded, but the moment wasn’t over for her, because she leaned down slightly and, closing her eyes, replaced her fingertips with her lips as she pressed them to his—just the barest, unmoving kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. It lasted only a couple seconds before she pulled away, but she was surprised by her boldness. Surprised and pleased, as his mouth now hung slightly open in shock and confusion. 

It was easy to avoid his eyes by looking at his mouth, but for a moment she felt as though she couldn’t look away, so drawn was she to repeat what she had just done. But then her eyes lifted to his and she saw her emotions mirrored in those gray depths. Shocked out of her reverie, she blinked and the moment was broken, and before he could react she turned and walked away, the painting forgotten. 

That night as she brought out dinner he watched her more than usual. She thought she noticed an increase in not only how often and how long he looked at her, but at what he looked at. She still wore her tank top and the jeans she’d worn gardening, but it was as though he were seeing it for the first time. A couple times she could have sworn he had been looking at her butt when she’d turned around. 

He watched her while she ate, watched as she took drinks from her glass, and then watched as she gathered up their plates and brought them inside to the sink. She didn’t mind at first, since it really was somewhat flattering. But as the evening wore on and he came inside her cabin to make coffee for their evening on the shore, she started to feel self-conscious. More and more she thought about the kiss, and she became increasingly agitated, both with his stare and with visions of how soft his lips were and how wonderful it had felt to have them pressed against hers. 

Then she began to get frustrated at his lack of communication, which almost never happened. She had become so tense that she had lost the ability to read what was going through his mind, as though a fog had fallen and their tenuous connection was slipping. Not only that, but he had kept his stare vacant, nearly devoid of all emotion. He looked neither happy or mad, complacent or curious. He appeared to be objectively studying her, and it was driving her insane. 

As she was reaching for her shawl she decided that she couldn’t stand it any longer. She whirled around to face him, ready to give him a piece of her mind. 

But then he was there, standing over her and looking at her now with definite emotion on his face. Hunger. Curiosity and lust. Confusion and determination. The fog had entered her mind and she couldn’t think, after having had their kiss on her mind for so long and now being confronted in the small confines of her cabin by his virile masculinity—his wide chest in her face and his presence doing all sorts of strange things with her insides. She looked up into his eyes, confused and yet full of want, for what she didn’t know. But whatever it was, she ached for it and she knew he was the source, as though she had travelled miles and miles to find the spring from which all life and happiness poured. 

The depth of her emotion shocked her, but suddenly he was putting his hands softly on the waistband of her jeans, and lowering his head to capture her mouth in a kiss even more delectable than the one from earlier. She had no time to think, no time to create a plan of action, or to reflect on how they had reached that point, or to consider the consequences of their actions. He was suddenly an all-consuming force, and she was in his path—had been his target all evening. 

This second kiss was longer, just an intense pressing of their lips but sweet, so very sweet. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders of their own volition, not quite knowing where to go but needing to feel something under them. Then his mouth opened and he caught her lower lip between both of his, giving it the slightest pull into his mouth. 

She very nearly came to her senses then, but only enough to feel that he was testing the waters. His touch was hesitant and yet firm, and his movements shy but passionate, so that they warmed her belly and melted her heart at the same time. 

She answered his movements by sliding her hands up over his shoulders, and up his neck to cup his face between her palms. She heard her own voice in her mind telling her it was now or never to be brave. She needed to take the reigns of her life, so she opened her mouth to him, darting her tongue out to stroke at his lip and invited him to deepen the kiss. 

It was all the encouragement he apparently needed, as his arms slid behind her back and pulled her in flush with his body. Then his tongue came out to tangle with hers and she was lost in the eroticism of the moment. His hair fell forward and brushed at her cheeks as her arms went around his neck, her fingers tangling with the long, soft hair at the nape of his neck. He growled at her touch and she whimpered in return, having never in her life felt the arousal she was feeling now. 

He backed her up against the kitchen counter and she felt it digging into her lower back, but she didn’t care. Pressing into her was his lower body where she could feel his hardness, the proof of his desire for her and her affect on him. His hands started to travel, sliding over her back, her sides, her shoulders, down the sides of her hips and back up to wrap around her tightly. Meanwhile her hands stayed where they were, locked in his hair and holding him to her so she could kiss and caress and taste his mouth with her own. 

They broke the kiss long enough to take a few breaths but when she would have continued, he held back. She felt it, but she also felt the evidence of his arousal and realized what he was doing. He didn’t want to take it too far, but oh, how she wished he would. 

Just as she came to that realization, Sandor softly pressed his lips to her once, twice, and a lingering third time before he backed up and released her from the pressure of the counter. He did not leave her though, setting their bodies apart but leaning down to wrap his arms around her shoulders. 

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed heavily, but she was smiling as she pressed her cheek to his chest, hearing and feeling the pounding of his heart, knowing that hers likely sounded very similar. Then she breathed deeply, having not smelt his smell since the day he’d put his shirt on her while he went for a swim. It was intoxicating, and she didn’t want to let it go. 

But she heard the coffee pot percolating and she moved out from between him and the counter, feeling strongly the absence of his body near hers and his arms wrapped around her. She was also slightly embarrassed—self-conscious, perhaps—of the voracity with which she had just participated in their embrace. She knew neither of them were used to such intense physical contact. 

As she prepared two mugs of coffee she smiled to herself, keenly aware of their astoundingly intense second kiss. But she was also suddenly shy, not knowing what to do or say. She had to inwardly coach herself—what feels like the natural next step? She wasn’t sure how he was feeling because she had refused to make eye contact from the moment she broke the hug to prepare their coffees. 

So she turned to him then timidly, handed him his mug of coffee, and smiled demurely at him. “Sandor,” she said, and she held out her hand. 

And there it was, the smile she was only seeing for the second time, a small closed-mouth smile that transformed him from the serious, straight-faced man to one with the best possible kind of secret. Their secret. It set the butterflies in her stomach fluttering wildly. He looked at her, obviously attempting but failing to disguise the effect their kiss had had on him. In a quiet, low voice thick with arousal and emotion he murmured, “Sansa.” Then he took her hand and led her out of the cabin. 

~*~

 

Sandor’s mind was a jumble of thoughts. As he led Sansa out to the campfire, one hand entwined with hers and the other carrying his coffee, he couldn’t nail down a single thought before another one popped up. 

First and foremost was the way she had felt in his arms, so sweet and responsive. That led to the memory of her kiss and how much passion she had hidden just under the surface. Then he thought of what would have happened if they had gone further, but that was a dangerous thought better left for another day. Or a time when he was alone… 

He even had trouble understanding his own smile. He had actually smiled, right? It wasn’t just his imagination? He had forgotten what it felt like to use those muscles, and he’d found himself doing it twice today. Both times had been in response to her, as he was certain only she could elicit such a physical response from him. She did indeed make him happy, happier than he knew he had ever been. 

Then tonight—several expletives flashed through his mind, such was his emotional frustration. Tonight was more than he had expected and everything he had wanted. And yet it was also more than he wanted and nothing that he had expected. He could have hit himself in the head if he had thought it would knock his thoughts into alignment. 

When she had kissed him after seeing his painting of her in the garden, he had expected that to be the end of it. It had been so sweet, so perfect, and that’s all it had had to be. He would have been happy—more than happy—to leave it at that. 

But then, he hadn’t expected it to light a fire deep within him. Where he had expected to receive the gift of the chaste kiss and to be glad for it, he’d instead been gifted with a glimpse of the passionate and fiery temptress that lingered beneath the surface. Damn. 

He had wanted to enjoy her company, to paint her in her element and to see her at ease, so calm and serene. Then in the end, in the midst of their arms and hands and lips colliding in a frantic upheaval of the solitude and isolation they’d mutually sought after, he had found himself wanting to feel her, taste her, to experience her body in ways he’d never been tempted to before with a woman. He had ways of assuaging his needs, more often than not in neighboring towns and after meeting someone anonymously online who was just up for a one-night stand, but this was spectacularly different. 

This was a soul-deep connection; not knowing where his body ended and hers began despite the fact that they both remained clothed the whole time. He’d run his hands all over her body, feeling the softness of her curves, the arc of her back, the bow of her hips, the way she fit perfectly against him. The sensation of her pressed up against him while he delved into her mouth and felt her hands gripping his hair was enthralling. In that moment, he had felt that he couldn’t get enough—that it was impossible to alleviate his attraction to her. 

But just as he had realized that to him she was like a drug that he could easily become addicted to, he became aware of the need to grind his hips into her in that basic, primal urge to make her his. He slowed, kissing her gently and telling her with his movements that it was time to slow down. It had been like a bucket of cold water being thrown over him and he’d backed off, just enough to remove the temptation of her presence against his hardness. 

It had felt like second nature to wrap his arms around her, to soothe her in case she was taking his decreasing ardor as rejection. But when she laid her cheek against his chest and inhaled deeply he felt for sure she wasn’t taking it that way. 

Then he had become unsure again when she’d slipped out of his arms without looking at him, a feeling that disappeared as soon as she turned back to him with two cups of coffee in her hands. She had looked at him with such a seductive, alluring look on her shy face that he’d felt his own smile appear once again. She’d barely breathed his name as she handed him his mug. He had had to swallow hard at the sound of her voice, it sounding more like pillow talk than conversation. 

“Sansa,” he had nearly growled. And when he’d taken her hand to lead her outside he could have sworn he had felt her heartbeat in her palm. Or was that his? 

Sandor wanted to do something special for her, something she would never expect. The previous evening, they had sat in front of the campfire for a couple hours, both of them lost in thought. She had held her hand out on the stump between them, and he had taken it within his larger one. This was… new. But it felt good. He decided he could ignore the fear that was lurking in the shadows of his mind, the fear that she would leave, the fear that something would happen to her for whatever reason, and that he would once again be left alone. He recognized this thing that they had between them for what it was—the opportunity to live in pure bliss for however long the universe saw fit to let them. 

But he was also scared of the natural progression of relationships. Here he was, knowing that he was a tall, imposing figure, knowing that to the people of town he was often seen as a monster and a cold-hearted hermit, a recluse who lived to be feared and avoided. And not only that—he was strong, and he had always felt that there was nothing within him that was weak or cowardly. 

His self-imposed isolation came from being tired of rejection, and of watching kids shy away from him and adults avert their eyes from him. He wasn’t being a coward when he did this. He sighed, thinking that in doing this he was... resigned. What was it people said? Content with one’s lot in life? At one time, before Sansa had arrived, he had thought he’d reached that point. 

But now she had thrown a red-headed wrench into the mix and had mucked everything up, for the better. He could no longer while away his days in solitude, painting and combating boredom. He could no longer sit through a meal of a cold sandwich and a cup of water. And he could no longer look off at the shore of the lake and feel no pleasure in the sight of it. No, she had changed everything. She had turned his world into the rainbows of color that he had always painted. She was magenta and yellow and aqua and emerald. She was the personification of his paints, and she had turned his small corner of the world from a dull, drab grayscale into colorful sanctuary. He could picture himself here for the rest of his life now, happy— 

With her at his side? 

He froze though he prayed she hadn’t noticed anything. Not that he’d been moving a lot to begin with but… Had he really just thought that? 

Sansa and he, sitting where they were just then, still holding hands as they were doing now, and her looking over at him—a few white hairs mixed into her still beautiful red, and some extra creases around the corner of her eyes. But she would probably be looking at him the way she was doing now, with soft eyes and a softer mouth, smiling at him as though he made the sun rise and fall every day. 

No, he couldn’t plan the future out like that. People got into trouble for doing things like that. Aside from illness and drunk drivers, she also had an insane ex-fiancé after her. Just the thought of this Baratheon creep made his blood boil. If he ever had the chance to lay hands on that asshole, the asshole might not survive the encounter. 

The reminder of the threat also reminded him of her scars. Although Sansa had taken to wearing the tank top on warmer days, he knew she was still self-conscious about the stripes and slashes and welts. 

He backtracked his thoughts, determined to not fantasize about what the future could hold for them. He needed to live in the now, and he needed to get her trained in using a gun, and he needed to calm down when it came to being afraid of what it meant to take a relationship further. This was new territory to him. 

The first step, he felt, was to do something special for her. He had a good idea now of what it would be, though he could very likely end up getting hurt. Actually, they both might get hurt, but it was a risk he was willing to take. He wanted to show her not only that he cared for her, but exactly how much. As he sat there holding her soft hand in his, he formulated his plan. 

Later that night he walked quietly from his cabin to the meadow where they had seen the moose. There he set up a target on a sawhorse and a small table at the edge of the clearing. He was setting the scene for her first gun lesson the following day, and he wanted it to be perfect. He aimed to make her feel comfortable, so he brought his noise-cancelling headphones for her and ear plugs for himself. As he walked back to his cabin he mentally prepared a list of supplies to gather for the lesson—ammunition, perhaps a couple bottles of water, extra targets— 

A scream rent the night air and he went cold, a moment before his legs made the decision for him. He crashed through the forest, ignoring the winding path and heading in a straight line for her cabin. There were downed trees he had to jump over, branches that snatched at his face and arms, and tall weeds wrapping around his legs trying to keep him from getting to Sansa. He yelled and growled every time he tripped, clawing at the ground for purchase to gain his footing again. 

There was another scream and he felt that she wouldn’t be alive when he got to her. He was terrified, his heart beating so hard that it hurt. Visions of a man he’d never seen flashed before his eyes, a man with a cigarette in his mouth and a handful of Sansa’s hair in his fist. 

He burst through the tree line only to find the yard empty except for her parked car. He didn’t stop as he ran up to the door of the cabin, crashing it open in his haste. There was no one else in the cabin and his heart slowed a tiny bit at that revelation, but Sansa wasn’t on her bed. He shoved his hands into his hair in angst, turning this way and that looking for her in every corner of the cabin. 

“Sandor!” she cried from a point just beyond the back of the door. She cried his name again and suddenly he had her in his arms, cradling her as she sobbed against his chest, pulling her legs up over his arm as he stormed out of her cabin and onto the path that led to his. 

He tried to gently shush her but it came out sounding angry. And he was—he was furious, indignant at the unfairness she had suffered, the evilness she’d had to endure for so long. He was angry that her family had been murdered, angry that someone, anyone, had seen the scars, heard her screams, and had not helped. Had not stepped in and intervened on her behalf. She had been made to endure burnings and beatings. Sandor was seeing red, and it didn’t matter that she was clutching the front of his shirt and soaking it with her tears. He wanted to hit something, to get the rage out that was choking him. 

But he had to help her. Above all else, he had to help her first. So when he got to his cabin he opened the door and strode directly back to his bedroom. He had a larger bed than her to accommodate his size so it didn’t take much for him to kick off his boots and then lay down on the bed with her still in his arms. She hadn’t moved, just laid where he had put her, crying softly now but shaking and hiccupping uncontrollably. 

Sandor knew he wasn’t going to be any good to her if he didn’t calm himself, so he took a few deep breaths, focused on the slight form that now lay in his arms, and he stroked her back. From the deepest depths of his mind came a song that he had once admired in his youth, and he began to hum it now, softly at first and then more confidently when he realized he wasn’t going to sound like a complete idiot. 

His voice was foreign even to him, but it seemed to have a calming effect on Sansa. And himself, if he were to be truthful. His heart was slowing, he was no longer seeing red, but he was still angry and protective of her as she lay in his arms like a frightened doe. 

He hummed until he thought she was asleep, and then he slid his arm out from underneath her head and stood. But she startled awake, crying out his name and reaching for him. 

“Please don’t leave me!” and she started to cry silently, tears once again trailing down her cheeks. She moved back on the bed, her movements short and frantic. 

He immediately reached out and grasped her outstretched hand, and keeping a hold of it, used his other to unbutton his jeans and push them down his hips. When she saw what he was doing she turned her scared blue eyes up to his and nodded, letting him know it was okay to let go of her hand. He did so only long enough to strip down to his boxers and arrange the blanket on top of her, before sliding into the bed with her. 

She scooted closer to him, still facing his chest, until there was barely any space between them at all, and he felt as her breath became slow and even against his throat. 

It took him a long time before he could get the images out of his mind, a long time of stroking her hair, her soft cheek, the smooth skin of her shoulder. She wore her black nightgown and it left a lot of skin exposed for him to touch, and though he told himself he did so to comfort her, he knew it was also a comfort to himself. She was here, in his bed, and she wasn’t an illusion—her warm skin and bumpy scars were proof of that. And when he curled an arm behind her back to hold her close, one of hers snaked out around his side and did the same, hugging him to her. 

It was in that moment that Sandor was reminded how he truly felt about her—that he would do anything for her. She needed him in so many ways. She needed him to remind her that she was alive; that she was wonderful; she needed his protection; and she needed his comforting for moments like this. 

There seemed to be no trigger for her nightmares but he knew from now on that while she slept, he would not be far away. The rage within him quieted a little bit more every time she exhaled warm breath against his skin, until finally he let it lull him into a deep sleep. 

~*~

 

When Sansa awoke early she felt comfortably warm, and immediately realized it was because she had a six and a half foot man draped around her in a large bed. She didn’t move, but instead lay still and tried to get her bearings. She was on her left side and at her back she could feel a solid wall of warm chest. She could feel Sandor’s breath tickling the hair on top of her head, and could feel his chin against her. 

One of his arms was under the pillow cushioning her head while the other was wrapped around her, locking her to him, with her fist enclosed in his. In her foggy state of mind she wondered how he got the scratches on his arms, but was too tired to think long on it. 

His right leg was brought up behind her, pinning her left leg to the bed, and her right ankle was comfortably hooked around it. She smiled, thinking that they must look like a human pretzel. 

Truthfully, she had never felt so wonderful. Waking up with Sandor wrapped around her like this felt so good, so right. She smiled to herself, feeling like a cat who got hold of the cream. 

She hadn’t known that this kind of physical contact could feel this way—like they were two pieces of the same puzzle and that when they came together, they fit perfectly. The feeling nearly left her wondering why she had ever thought she could do without physical touch. It seemed now a silly notion, now that she knew how wonderful it felt. 

Thinking to herself that she hoped he felt the same when he woke up, she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep. 

When she woke again the sun was slightly brighter, and she found herself draped over his chest, her head on his shoulder. He was laying on his back but held her to him with the arm wrapped around her back. Sometime since she’d last woken she had thrown a leg over his, and then he had draped his leg over hers, trapping it there. 

As soon as she realized her hand was laying on his pectoral muscle with his nipple under the heel of her hand, she tensed. It was such an intimate touch, she didn’t quite know if she should move it or leave it. She turned her eyes up to look at him and saw that she was looking at the unscarred side of his face. 

She studied him for a minute or two, imagining what he would have looked like if he hadn’t been scarred. But when he sighed in his sleep and turned his head towards her she lifted her head to look straight at his face. When she saw faint scratches on his forehead and cheeks she became slightly alarmed. She remembered seeing them on his arm earlier, and would have to ask him about it. 

She took the quiet opportunity to treat herself, looking on his features without having his eyes on her as well. His lashes were short and thick, the corner of his eye slightly pulled down naturally giving it a puppy dog look. His beard was also thick and she thought it made him look very handsome, though she wondered what he looked like without it. She could see his lips better now that she was so close and thought they looked soft, kissable. 

But on the other side was his scars—the reason why he had no eyebrow or eyelashes on that side, how that eye was pulled down even more at the corner by scar tissue, and why his beard abruptly ended halfway over his cheek. 

She loved everything about him, and knew she would prefer this scarred version of him to any other that by society’s standards was more perfect. In sleep his face was relaxed with less lines, but still incredibly handsome. His eyebrow was thick and dark, as was his mustache and beard. She lifted her hand from his chest and traced a finger from the middle of his mustache out to the corner of his mouth, and down his beard. 

She wondered if he was going to wake, and also wondered what would she do if he did? She knew there was a certain level of their relationship she wasn’t ready to take it to, but… a kiss wouldn’t hurt, right? 

And oh, how she had enjoyed their other kiss. Sandor was so full of passion and life, he poured it all out when he had kissed her, stroked her, held onto her like she belonged to him. And for once, she didn’t flinch at those words. She had been incredibly aroused at the way he’d taken charge and backed her up against the counter, tearing at her lips with his own while he possessed her body with his hands. 

She was warm now, blushing, at the memories of that kiss. And all she wanted to do was to experience it one more time… 

She leaned over and pressed her lips to his knowing this was likely to wake him up, and she dropped her hand back to his chest while she did so. It was intoxicating—touching him, feeling the fine hairs of his chest while she softly rubbed her lips against his. She knew the moment he came awake because he didn’t open his eyes, but his arms came around her slowly, languidly, and then his mouth was opening, beckoning her to deepen the kiss. 

She obliged him, sliding her hand up to his neck while she kissed him again and again, and before she knew what was happening she was on her back and he was laying between her legs. It happened so fast Sansa hadn’t realized his intentions. The barest hint of panic fluttered through her mind before he moved his body upward on top of hers and, oh, the friction against the apex of her thighs! She gasped into his mouth as he kissed her and he groaned in response, laying his elbows on the bed beside her shoulders as he did it again, so very painfully slow. 

The sensation was heavenly. Sansa had never known a feeling such as this. It was as though, miracle of miracles, her body actually wanted this—this contact with Sandor’s body that caused her to feel all sorts of different warm, tender feelings inside. She wrapped her arms around his torso and felt the hard muscles contracting in his back as he held himself above her. His hardness pressed against her and on his next movement she lifted her hips to increase the friction, and he tore his mouth away from hers to growl her name into her ear. 

But then he froze, and it was over almost as soon as it started. He ended the contact between their hips, pulling his body back from her. His hair swept across her face as he slid away, and he stood at the edge of the bed with his back to her, looking as though he might lose his balance. If she hadn’t been so confused she might have marveled at how handsome he was, with a soft layer of hair covering his back and long, muscular legs coming out of the bottoms of his boxers. 

But then he was fairly staggering to the door of his bedroom, grabbing his jeans on the floor along the way. 

Sansa felt cold. She felt uncertain and confused, wondering if perhaps she had made a mistake. Should she have really not kissed him? Not rubbed his chest? Not wantonly pressed her hips against his? 

She could hear the cabin door opening, and then closing with a bang. He was obviously upset. But surely it couldn’t be something she did? 

Suddenly incredibly self-conscious and embarrassed, she pulled the blanket back up to her chin and laid her head down on the pillow. As she breathed she drew in his scent and she closed her eyes, savoring it. She realized she was afraid that they had gone too far. She had been amazed that SHE hadn’t felt that way, but thought it now a possibility that he had gone too far, too soon, and that he would want to put distance between them. 

She remembered him coming in to the cabin after she’d called his name over and over again, so scared from the trauma that had been inflicted upon her in the dream that she’d called out to him to rescue her and he’d not been there. Then the door had flown open and he had appeared looking ready to tear apart whomever was attacking her. 

If only the attacker had been real, Joffrey could have been ended that night and her nightmare would have truly been over. 

But no, she knew it wasn’t over. She knew Sandor could not control the horror that went on when she closed her eyes, when her body brought her down into a deep slumber, any more than she could. And though there had been a delay in his rescue of her—that it had happened after she’d already woken from the terror—she had been filled with the full fear she had endured at Joffrey’s hands, cowering in the corner as she had used to do when he’d gone on one of his tirades. 

Sandor had swept her up into his arms and had strode over here immediately to his cabin, where he had lain with her in bed, stroking her hair and humming. 

At the memory of his humming tears filled her eyes. His voice had been deep, gravelly but soft. She didn’t recognize the song but it had filled her mind and pushed all memories of Joffrey and the attack out of her mind until she’d drifted off to sleep with Sandor’s voice filling her soul. What a wondrous way to end the horrible ordeal, she thought, and then squeezed her eyes shut at the pain that followed—had she just ruined what they had? 

She had never thought to be in this position. Had her attraction to him caused him to react to her the way he’d done—so ardently and with such heated passion? She hoped not, because then it really would have been all her fault, and if that was the case she didn’t think she could live near him, wanting him, wanting to be with him, so badly that it hurt. 

She could hear him now and knew from the sound of the ax hitting the logs that he was swinging it ferociously. It broke her heart that she had upset him so much and she began to cry in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have commented and sent love for my fic! These two will sort it out eventually, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized while editing this chapter that there are similarities between this and my other posted fic, Lights Over Alaska. Oops! I guess when I write two stories at the same time the same scenes run through my mind ;-)
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Delving into these two people and their emotional upheavals has been exciting, stressful, and enlightening all at the same time. Thank you for joining me on this Sansan journey! <3

Sandor was angry at himself. He felt like such a coward, walking away from her when she likely needed him. But when he realized how far he had taken that kiss, and had become aware of how much he wanted her and how far his bodily instincts had taken the situation—mimicking lovemaking—he’d panicked. 

He hadn’t been with a woman in years, nor had he ever wanted one as badly as he wanted Sansa. That combination had caused a haze of confusion to enter his mind and to overtake his thoughts. He couldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t hurt her, and yet he had wanted to keep going, to eventually be inside her and to take her and make her his. 

For fuck’s sake—he had been about to ravish her, and there very well could have been a point where she told him no. What terrified him was, could he have stopped? 

Those kisses from yesterday had lit a fire deep in his gut. The first one had been so unexpected—so soft, so sweet, so HER—that it would forever be etched in his mind. It was the first time their lips had touched, and it had been everything he had expected it to be and more. 

Then later that evening… Could he even think about that kiss without getting hard? He’d caught a glimpse of the passion and the fire that laid dormant underneath her surface and he’d been like an animal out for blood—he’d gotten a taste for her, and he wanted more. 

Then this morning when he’d woken up to her kissing him, it had rendered him a lunkhead male with only sexual instincts controlling his every action. It hadn’t taken long at all for his tired, aroused mind to know that she belonged under him, and that the age old motion of hips grinding together would get them both to where they wanted to be. 

But just as he’d ground out her name against her ear she had lifted her hips, welcoming his movements, and it had dragged him into consciousness and he’d realized what he was doing. He had been taking advantage of her, and he had felt like the worst sort. 

She was innocent. She WAS an innocent. It hadn’t been her fault that she’d been caught up in gang activity when she’d been young, and that her engagement to a monster had ended in a blood bath peppered frequently with beatings. He slammed the ax down particularly hard on a log and split it cleanly down the center, sending the two pieces flying off either side of the stump. 

And to think what he had wanted to do… He was disgusted with himself. She deserved better. She deserved a man who could handle her the way she was without spending every waking minute of the day wondering what she looked like naked, how she would feel wrapped around him in bed. 

He couldn’t believe the change in him she had wrought over these past few, short months. He had gone from not wanting anything to do with her to proving WHY he shouldn’t have anything to do with her. Damn it all, he needed to stay away from her. She had wreaked such upheaval in his life that he didn’t even recognize himself. 

Today he had planned on her first gun lesson and a surprise dinner at Bill and Lucy’s house. Fuck, he was going to have to call Bill and cancel. 

He leaned the ax against the stump, a sheen of sweat dotting his brow now. He was calmer than he had been when he’d walked out of the cabin, but his heart was beating fast. Splitting logs had always been his preferred cardio activity and he could feel its effects now. 

As he walked up to the cabin he became aware of a noise coming from within. When he reached the front porch he quietly approached the door and stopped just outside of it, his ear to the seam between the door and the wall. It was unmistakable crying, soft but audible. 

Once again feelings of self-loathing pierced his heart. He had done this to her. He had hurt her, unintentionally though it may be. She was in there crying because of him, and it made him want to disappear. Again he felt cowardice in him like a bad seed, and he fought to keep himself from hitting the wall. 

Would he ever be able to just exist without hurting or scaring anyone? He sighed wearily, knowing he was being overemotional in this case—their situation actually did boil down to him taking things too far, her feeling hurt because of it, and him walking out angrily. The voice of reason in his head was telling him he needed to make this right. 

But then there was a small part of him that wondered if he should. Wouldn’t it be best for her to cry it out and then leave before he could hurt them both again? She could pack up and leave, he would resume his normal activities, and she could find somewhere else to settle down— 

No, he firmly told himself. He reminded himself that she was on the run and that he had just committed to protecting her, not only from the physical threat of Joffrey but from the mental, imagined threat of him in her nightmares. Again, the words that were starting to sound like a mantra welled up within him and he gave into them—she needed him… and he needed her. 

He had to make this right. He had to commit to distance between them, and that did mean never sleeping in the same bed with her. He paced to the edge of the porch, remembering how she had asked him to try—try to let her in, try and build this connection they had, this mutual connection, because they both had felt that it was worth it. But how he wasn’t so sure. He was scared once again, more afraid of hurting her than ever. This morning had been proof of the power to hurt her that he possessed, and it terrified him that it would happen again. 

Nevertheless, he had to fix this. He reached up and combed his hair back and out of his face with his fingers, a motion that was becoming ever more familiar to him. With all the changes Sansa had wrought in his life from her mere presence, the thought of her leaving twisted his heart painfully. 

As soon as he opened the door he no longer heard her crying. He walked across the room to the door of his bedroom and stood just outside, looking at her laying on the bed. She still faced the door, her hair a mess behind her on the sheets, but her face was hidden in his pillow. 

“Go away, Sandor,” came her broken command, though her tone betrayed her sadness. She hiccupped, but else wise did not move. At least she knew he was there, he thought. 

But he ignored it and walked in anyway. If he had been the type to wring his hands he would have done so. He had never been a fidgeter, but apparently he was the stand-helpless-and-be-silent type. He shook his head, willing it to clear. 

When he didn’t move she glanced up at him slowly, red-rimmed eyes peering over the edge of his pillow. She saw he was still there so she closed her eyes and pushed her face back into the pillow. 

“Please,” she said again, “Go away.” 

Damn, he didn’t want to hurt her but he knew deep down that walking away just wasn’t the right thing to do. He shouldn’t have done it in the first place, so instead he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, just a foot from where she was laying. 

He heard her dramatic, disgusted sigh. His shoulders fell, knowing that he was going to muck this up. He sighed heavily and his head dropped forward. He leaned his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said, simply. He needed to find the right words, formulate sentences that accurately described what he was feeling. He had known this was going to be hard, but the talking was the worst part. He could sit here all day with her eyes condemning him, but voicing an apology and explaining his action was something he hadn’t done in at least a decade, perhaps ever. 

“I did--” he said haltingly. How was he going to word this? “I would have—“ He paused, but then the only words he could think of floated into his mind, and though they were crude and he knew he would shock her, he had no choice. “I would not have stopped,” he ground out, angry at himself all over again—angry that he wasn’t eloquent or refined, and angry that his words were the truth. 

She didn’t say anything, though another hiccup wracked her body. He dragged his hands down his face wearily as he sat up straight, staring ahead at the wall opposite the bed. What else could he say? Should he say? Was he making things worse? 

“Sansa,” he said, still not looking at her, “You deserve better.” 

He felt her look up at him then, but he didn’t turn. He didn’t want to read anything into her expression, or see her eyes affirm what he was saying. He thought hard about what he was going to say, because he hadn’t really explained WHY he hadn’t wanted to stop, or why that was a problem to him. And telling her that she deserved better… He was going to fuck this up, he just knew it. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said, looking down at his clasped hands. He pursed his lips and shook his head, then said quietly, “I don’t want you to leave. I…” He glanced back at her quickly enough to see that she was watching him above the pillow, expressionless. He looked back at his hands, his hair falling across his face, still not wanting to see her reaction. It could only hurt him. 

“I still need you,” he ground out, almost angrily. He really was going to fuck this up. He couldn’t do this, this word thing. Conversation. Apologies. Fuck it all, he was so incredibly frustrated. 

He stood suddenly and put his hands on his hips, turning slightly to look out the window. But he would find nothing there to save him and he looked up at the ceiling, over at the other wall, dropped his hands into fists and cursed out loud. Still without looking at her he fairly snarled, “I’m not angry.” Then he amended more calmly, “At you, no…” He wiped a hand down his face again, mumbling, “At me--” as he turned towards her. She was still looking at him, and he looked away, then quickly glanced back as he thought he had seen perhaps curiosity on her face. But he looked away too quickly to see for sure. 

He couldn’t make eye contact with her. This was the most awkward he had felt since the day he had brought her coffee cup back to her after startling her on the shore. 

He couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t take her silence, the quiet that was pervading the room. He turned and strode out of the room, grabbing his t-shirt on the way out. 

 

~*~

Well, thought Sansa. She stared at the bedroom doorway where he had just disappeared. She heard him in the kitchen doing something, and was a bit surprised that he hadn’t walked out of the cabin like before. 

Well—she thought again—that didn’t turn out the way she had expected. 

Here she was feeling embarrassed for acting so forward, thinking she had ruined the fragile bond they had created by taking advantage of HIM, and he was there thinking the same thing. 

And he’d said again that he needed her, and had obviously thought she was going to leave. She was confused, and felt an intense rush of relief paired with uncertainty. He didn’t want her to go, and she didn’t want to go. She wanted to remain in her cabin and if anything, to go on as they were before. 

But could they? That’s where the uncertainty came into play. After what they had done this morning—how he was angry at himself for apparently not wanting to stop—where did they go from here? He had said she deserved better. Well, she was going to have to set him straight on that. 

What they had done, despite her initial feelings on it, had been… amazing. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t want to do it again, but perhaps it happened too fast. They had shared a couple of kisses and had let that go to their heads. Then they had both been upset when Sandor had walked out. 

She turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. His bed was so comfortable, she thought she could have closed her eyes and gone back to sleep, except for the low hum of desire coursing through her limbs from her core. She closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. She couldn’t think about that—couldn’t think about the way his body had smelled, they way he had felt on top of her, the delicious things he made her body feel. Ugh! She was in turmoil over it, now knowing she hadn’t been the only one who had enjoyed it. She turned back on her side and hugged his pillow to her face, inhaling deeply. He smelled so good and his bed smelled like him. 

Crap crap crap. She couldn’t stay here all day. 

She stood and looked down at her nightgown. It was short, covering just the tops of her thighs, and the low neckline and thin straps really left nothing to the imagination. But she wasn’t about to go rooting through his things to find a shirt, and he had taken the one he’d been wearing the night before. 

So instead she ran her fingers through her hair to comb out the tangles and then wrapped herself in the sheet from his bed before walking through the bedroom door. 

It was her turn to apologize, and to comfort him. He had done so much for her—stolen her out of her cabin when she’d had a nightmare, claimed that she didn’t deserve him when their attraction was clearly mutual, and now she saw that there was a second cup of steaming coffee sitting on the table. He stood in front of the table staring out the window, one hand in his pocket and the other holding an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. The morning sunlight coming in the window illuminated him and showed her that his hair was covering his face from the side so she couldn’t see him. 

So he was back to that, hmm? she thought. She didn’t want him to be so upset that he regressed back to hiding himself from her. Somehow she needed him to see reason, to come back to her and to resume what they’d had before. It was even more important now that she make things right, knowing that she loved him. 

She walked up behind him and stood close but not touching. She really didn’t know what to say so she just plowed ahead. 

“Sandor, can we please talk?” She saw his whole body tense up at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t turn around so she walked around in front of him and pointedly pulled out the chair. She stood there as he eyed her sheet, swallowed, and took the seat she offered. She sat opposite him, wishing he would brush the hair away from his face. He was staring down at his coffee cup. 

“I’m not mad,” she started. It was obvious he hadn’t expected her to say that. He glanced up at her without lifting his head and then looked back at his coffee cup. “In fact,” she continued with a small smile, “I thought YOU would be mad at ME.” He did look up at her then, eyes wide. He was so handsome, and her heart opened at how insecure he was right then. “I thought…” She paused, swallowed again, and took a sip of her coffee. “I thought you would think I was forward, that I was moving too fast. I thought I would scare you away.” 

Sandor was still looking at her but he snorted at that and shook his head. She knew it would sound silly to him based off of what he had said earlier, but she needed to say it, needed to show him that she wasn’t leaving. 

“I’m glad you explained yourself earlier,” said Sansa. “And—“ This was hard. “I don’t think—I’m not upset, that is, about what happened.” She cleared her throat, and suddenly her coffee was very fascinating. “I, uh…” 

She was having so much trouble getting this out. He likely wasn’t going to put into words exactly how he felt and she knew in his own way he would eventually show her. So she needed to carry this burden for the moment. She continued in a much quieter voice, embarrassed at having to say this out loud but knowing it was the solid truth, “I enjoyed it.” However, she wasn’t about to say that she, too, would not have stopped. 

She couldn’t look him in the eye. She knew that he had as well, from him saying that he wouldn’t have stopped. But she loved him even more that he did, and that he thought he had taken things too far. Reminding herself of that made it slightly easier to speak about it. 

She knew what she wanted to say and just needed to get it out, so she took a deep breath and went for it, still staring into her coffee—“I don’t deserve better than you, Sandor, because there is no better man, and I don’t want to leave. I want to stay, here, in my cabin and with you, having coffee every morning and a campfire at night, having meals together, enjoying each other and… and… just being here,” she finished, at a loss for what else to say. 

There. She stood up to leave, knowing she’d said it all. Except, “I still need you, Sandor.” She poured out the love she felt into those five simple words, willing him to pick up the vibe and know how much he meant to her. 

But not wanting to push him, she laid the sheet over the back of the chair and walked out. He hadn’t even moved. 

~*~

Sandor did indeed watch her go, appreciating the way her hips swayed under the hem of her nightgown. 

He could barely breathe. He would have no way of knowing how she felt unless she’d done what she just did, and spilled her heart out for him. How could he have been so wrong? 

She said she needed him, deserved him, wanted him. On the one hand he felt like the luckiest man in the world. She was a beauty, and she was sweet and caring and so very special. But on the other hand, he still felt like he didn’t deserve her, mostly because he wasn’t capable of waxing poetic and showering her with praise and words. 

But she had said he was the best man, and that she deserved him. And if he had reached that level in her eyes without doing those things, than perhaps there was hope for him? He questioned it in his mind but knew at the same time that he needed to now live up to her view of him. 

Likely starting with that dinner at Bill’s tonight. Thank goodness he hadn’t called to cancel yet. It seemed like they would be able to salvage their day. 

She’d admitted to liking what they had done in bed. It had lasted all of thirty seconds but it had changed him forever. He had never been so turned on in his entire life. And that she had told him she’d enjoyed it not only meant that she might be up to doing it again—a dangerous thought—but that everything that was supposed to happen between hand-holding and grinding in bed was now an option. Though he knew to take it slow, he also knew that now was not the time to play the horny teenager. He needed to treat her like a man would treat a woman, not a scared animal. She deserved that, to not always be handled with kid gloves. 

He needed a game plan, and he would enact it today. As he thought of the physical ways he could show her what she meant to him, he went about his morning as usual. 

He found her before lunch in her garden, sitting on her knees and staring off into space. She hadn’t heard him approach and he had a minute to look at her. 

She was as beautiful as ever, wearing her brown tank top and tan sunhat with the big bow. But now her hair was hanging loose down her back, straight and sleek and looking soft. Her scars decorated her shoulders and arms, and though he couldn’t see them he knew they covered her chest as well. There wasn’t any part of him that didn’t want her in his life, and he needed to show her. That meant, much to his chagrin, learning the fine art of speaking again. 

“Sansa,” he said softly, though he still startled her. She glanced back and seeing him, smiled widely. Then as though remembering the morning, she blushed and looked down at the group of plants she had been weeding. 

She resumed pulling up the tiny plants as she asked, “Yes? Do you need something?” 

He did, in fact. He needed her, all of her, but he didn’t say as much. Instead he nodded, then remembered that she wasn’t looking at him. He cleared his throat. 

“Do you want a gun lesson?” His voice was raspy, though he got his point across. She looked up at him, surprise washing over her face before she smiled again and nodded. 

“I would like that,” she said, and she stood, brushing the first off the knees of her jeans. “Let me just go change,” she said, making to turn the opposite direction and go back to her cabin. 

“No,” he said harshly, though he hadn’t meant to sound that way. Just be calm, he thought to himself. Let the words come out slowly. Sansa was looking back at him, confusion written on her features. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. 

“You look beautiful,” was what he said, though he probably should have said fine instead of beautiful. But she flushed a pretty pink and looked pleased at the compliment. 

Damn it, he thought to himself. Say one thing and mean another, but she likes the original. Figures. 

Then he held his hand out to her, and she paused again, staring at it. For a beat he thought she would refuse to take it, but then she smiled shyly up at him as she stepped closer, sliding her hand into his. He wondered if she felt the same tingles on his skin that he did. 

They walked hand in hand down the path to the meadow where the night before he had set up the small shooting range. Just a little while ago he had brought out the rest of what they’d need—the gun, extra ammunition, noise cancelling headphones for her and ear plugs for him. 

He showed her everything she needed to know, giving short commands when necessary but demonstrating everything. They were both pleasantly surprised when they discovered she was a decent shot, both with a two-handed grip at longer distances and with a single-handed grip at short distances. 

“You’re a natural,” he admitted quietly, and he had to smile softly at her when she’d beamed at the compliment. 

He loved making her smile—her pleasure shone from her eyes, and she had the most perfect mouth he had ever seen. Everything she did made him want to kiss her, though he wasn’t bold enough to do so. He felt that she wouldn’t have pushed him away, but still… It was ridiculous that a man of his age and size would be shy around a woman. But he just didn’t want to muck things up between them. He would have pushed her hard and fast if his instincts had their way. So he kept them in check, and waited patiently as she loaded another clip with ammunition. 

He couldn’t deny that she made him happy—happier than he’d ever been. And the events of this morning just cemented her place in his heart. Not that he wanted a relationship purely centered around the physical—not at all, and especially not with her. What she had done for him over the last few months had succeeded in what years of therapy hadn’t. He was ready to participate in love again— 

He froze, hands on his hips as she slowly emptied a clip into the faraway target. He was ready to participate in life again, he was sure of it. Was sure that he had meant that. Where had the word love come in? 

He looked at her now and opened his mind to the emotions and feelings that appeared at the sight of her. He recognized many of them—respect for her journey and who she had become, contentment and satisfaction in their time together, his passionate attraction to her, awe at her attraction to him, and trusting of her friendship. But love? 

She turned to him now, looking somewhat silly in her headphones but smiling brightly at him as she took the clip out and struggled a bit to push bullets into it. Then she turned, chambered a round, and resumed her target practice. 

Did all that add up to love, he wondered? And then he felt silly because surely someone would know love as though it had hit them in the face. 

Or was it possible for love to creep up on you, like prey ready to pounce and devour all that you thought was real? He had to admit--that is what Sansa’s presence felt like. She had come into his life and ripped away his shame and self-consciousness of his scars. She had turned his life upside down with her touches, her caring and generous nature, her willingness to sit with him in silence and to enjoy it—with her mere presence. And he liked the new direction his life was taking, as long as it included her in it. 

Love? He suddenly felt it--the slap in the face, as though it were from a trout from the lake. She looked back at him again, a sweeter smile showing on those precious lips of hers, and then went back to reloading. 

“I love you, Sansa,” he murmured quietly, knowing she couldn’t hear the words. They felt strange on his lips, and his tongue had to work hard to form the correct sounds. And rather than causing a cold fear to envelop his heart like he had expected, instead it spread like a warm ripple in a pond throughout his body, infiltrating every corner and crevice until he was convinced that he did indeed, truly love her. 

Well, shit, he thought. This was unexpected. 

 

~*~

 

Sansa was happy. Things seemed to be back to normal between her and Sandor, aside from the occasional blushes from her when she thought about what they had done that morning. And he seemed to have taken a step towards being more accepting—and willing to initiate—physical touch. He had held her hand again on the way back from the shooting range, his strong grasp holding firm to her small, soft hand. She didn’t mind, though. It reminded her of his masculinity, and the way he had taken control over the… situation… in bed that morning. 

She flushed, silently admonishing herself for her thoughts, but smiling to herself as well. She was acting like a teenager, and it felt good. 

Sandor surprised her by telling her they had been invited to dinner at a friend’s house. She was surprised because not only did she not know that he had ANY friends, but because he had accepted the invitation. She never would have thought he’d venture out of their sanctuary to socialize. 

But he told her it was the man who bought all of his paintings, to which she’d looked at him with what must have been an alarmed expression. 

“Not yours,” he assured her, and she’d breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow she hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea of her image being in a stranger’s house, and she was relieved that he had kept them all. 

She had taken extra time to get ready for the evening, wearing a long-sleeved blouse with wide sleeves and tight cuffs at her wrists. It had embroidery along the gathered neckline, and just before leaving the cabin she’d untied the bow there and had loosened it just a tiny bit. This exposed the faintest edges of her scars on her chest and shoulders, but she wanted to do this for Sandor. He was going to go out in public tonight—well, he was going to see two people he didn’t see on a regular basis—and she didn’t want him to be the only one with visible scars. 

She knew she had made the right decision when he knocked on her door at the designated time. 

“Just a minute,” she called from within, grabbing a small purse and checking her hair one more time. The top was pulled back into a clip and it was hanging over her shoulder now, straight and plain. She hoped he liked it. 

Then she opened the door, and Sandor stood there, for a moment longer than proper, just staring at her. She could see his eyes roaming the neckline of her tunic and knew he’d seen her scars. Then he looked up into her eyes and there she saw a question. 

“I know, Sandor,” she reassured him. Then she stepped close enough to reach up and put a hand on his warm, scarred cheek, willing him to feel the love that now filled her, pour through her palm and into him. For the briefest instant he leaned into her hand and closed his eyes, looking so sweet and vulnerable that she had to hold back from embracing him. Ah, she thought, there was her silent woodsman. Her heart near burst with her newfound love. 

A few seconds later, the moment gone, they walked to the truck hand-in-hand. Sandor opened the door for her and waited until she had gotten in before pausing, standing with his hand on the door. 

“You are beautiful, Sansa,” he said earnestly. Then he shut the door and turned, coming around to the driver’s side of the truck. Sansa blushed, as she seemed to be doing a lot lately, though she glowed with his compliment. When he climbed into his side, the truck dipped under his weight. He put his seat belt on and put the truck in drive. She said his name and he looked over at her, showing her his scarred face. 

“You are handsome,” she said shyly with a smile, and she held out her hand to him. It took him a moment before he took it, but when he did he brought it to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers. He looked towards the road, missing the smile slipping from her face as she looked at him in shock. He was changing, had possibly changed even since this morning, and she didn’t know what to think about it. But in her mind she heard a mantra revolving, “Not too fast, not too fast, not too fast.” 

They drove in silence with quiet music playing on the radio, holding hands until he reached the right road and he had to maneuver around some turns. She liked the way his long hair whipped around his face with the breeze coming in the open window. A couple times he looked over at her but she couldn’t decipher the emotion on his face. He didn’t smile, of course, but the way he looked at her—so intently, his gray eyes boring into hers—gave her butterflies in her stomach. He saw things she wished she could see. 

They pulled up to Bill’s driveway and Sandor put the truck in park and turned it off. She felt that he was as nervous as she was. Where they were in their lives, neither of them was good at socializing. But she had to admit to feeling a smidge of excitement, or at least looking forward to meeting this couple. It had been so long since she’d met anyone whom she felt she didn’t have to be suspicious of, Sandor himself being the last one. 

But there was no help for it—they were here, and needed to go inside. Sandor got out and she waited as he walked around to open her door. But she didn’t get out, her heartbeat suddenly rising. 

“Sandor,” she said, feeling more nervous now that they were in the driveway. He stopped and held out his hand to her, but he waited for her to speak. She didn’t know what to say, but wouldn’t have minded some words of encouragement for her. A thought that she knew was silly, because it was likely that he could have used the same. She turned to him, feeling trepidation and uncertainty, and he stepped closer to her. 

“I’ll be with you,” he assured her in that deep, gravelly voice, and she let those words flow over her skin and down her spine, willing them to wash away her nervousness. He rubbed one hand down her upper arm while he held out the other for her to take. She did, but she paused again and glanced at the house. It was a small single story with lights on, and it looked very welcoming. She weighed her fear against the anticipation of talking with other adults. 

But then she looked back at him and saw concern on his face, and she knew something that would distract them both. A quavering smile appeared on her lips. 

“Kiss me,” she suddenly whispered, wanting to feel something comforting, something certain and good. 

Once again he stood staring at her for a brief moment, his eyes darting from her eyes to her lips and back again, as though he didn’t really believe she had said the words. He looked like he wanted to comply, but was also hesitant about following through with her request. 

So she turned in her seat to face the open door and leaned out to press her lips to his, taking away his option to deny her. His lips were soft, and his beard and mustache lightly scratched at her face. She accepted his presence against her mouth and she willed her kiss to wash from him the anxiety he was no doubt feeling. She felt her own melt away at the delicious contact, and her hands came up to cup his face, tenderly stroking it with her fingertips as she soothed him with her mouth. 

She only stopped when she felt faint waves of arousal pool in her belly. She pulled back, hands still on his face, and she looked at his lips where hers had just been pressed. She had never been in this position with him before—eye to eye, with her now as tall as he was due to the height of the truck. It was new and different, and she liked that for once she wasn’t looking up at him. 

She gently stroked the pad of her thumb over his lower lip, and she bit her own when he quietly growled, no doubt feeling the same arousal she was. When she lifted her eyes to his she saw they were dark, and she had no doubt that she was seeing desire in their depths. 

She had initiated the connection, and yet the look in his eyes shocked her. She slid down out of the truck and broke eye contact before she could question her decision. 

Not too fast, not too fast, she silently reminded herself. 

She pushed what had just happened out of her mind as they walked up to the front door. It swung open before he could knock. 

“Sandor!” A small woman in her sixties greeted them enthusiastically, though Sansa noted the woman made no effort to take Sandor’s hand, which remained at his side. Nor did she try to kiss him in a grandmotherly way, which this woman definitely seemed. The short woman looked up at both of them, wearing a frilly apron and a wide smile. 

“And this must be Sansa!” she said. “I’m so happy to meet you.” 

Citing propriety, Sansa held out her own hand in greeting and the older woman clasped it within both of her own. 

“Sandor has mentioned you to Bill, and so I’ve only heard about you from him, but I’m so glad you took me up on my invitation.” Then she winked at Sansa and glanced reproachfully at Sandor. “Anyone able to drag this man out of his cave for an evening is worthy of my thanks and respect!” 

Good heavens. Sansa didn’t know whether to laugh at or apologize to Sandor. When she glanced back at him he simply raised an eyebrow at her. 

The woman introduced herself as Lucy and moved aside so Sandor and Sansa could enter. But as they did so Sansa glanced up at him and smiled a teasing smile. She decided she just might enjoy this evening after all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were so many directions I could take this fic, but this is what I have chosen.
> 
> I hope you like it, and that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

Sandor had to grudgingly admit to himself that he was enjoying dinner more than he thought he would. Bill and Lucy both openly engaged Sansa in conversation, graciously including him only if they knew the answers could be short, or none at all. They didn’t mind talking about him despite him being present and watching them, but he knew it was for Sansa’s benefit. 

He was enjoying the evening largely because she was. He knew their kiss had been her attempt at calming herself and at pulling support from him, but she really hadn’t seemed to need it. Though she was still shy and stuck by his side like a barnacle, she was quietly talking with Lucy and Bill, even laughing bashfully at times, which he had never seen before. The sound of her voice as she laughed at Bill recounting his first meeting with Sandor had warmed his heart, and had reinforced his love. She was glorious, despite that she was laughing at what had been an incredibly uncomfortable situation for him. 

But as Bill gave an account of their first meeting, Sandor watched her to see her reactions. 

“He was the meanest looking man I have ever seen,” Bill was saying, his grin wide and toothy. 

Lucy chimed in with, “Was?” And her and Sansa both chuckled. Sansa looked back at him and bit her lip as though she was trying not to laugh harder. He remained expressionless, except for the raising of his eyebrow. 

“There he was, holding a mess of paintings that he claimed to have done himself. And of course I didn’t believe him,” Bill said. He leaned closer to Sansa as if letting her in on a secret. “And I told him as much, too!” Sansa’s mouth fell open and she let out a small gasp. 

“You didn’t!” she quietly exclaimed, looking back at Sandor as though she would see the the expression on his face that he must have given Bill in that moment. Sandor dramatically rolled his eyes, causing her to giggle, and Bill went on. 

“I did,” he was saying, “And I also remained conscious of just where under the counter I keep my shotgun! But he convinced me, after I asked to see all the paintings and to hear a little bit about them. Sandor didn’t say much, but I could see it in him that he wasn’t a liar. There’s just something about him that made me trust him,” Bill said in a nicer voice. He smiled at Sandor, an almost fatherly smile that made Sandor uncomfortable. 

“Me too,” Sansa was saying, and he turned to catch her looking at him, an odd look on her face. There was something different about her, a new breed of kindness radiating from her eyes, but he couldn’t put words to its description. She just looked… She was looking at him with adoration, he realized. 

Bill must have missed the moment between them because he went on, “I’ve been selling his paintings ever since, and I have never had one sit on the wall for more than a couple weeks.” He looked pointedly at Sandor then and asked, “Speaking of which, when do I get my next batch?” 

Sandor looked away from Sansa, still perplexed at what he was seeing in her eyes but still keeping up with the conversation. “Soon,” he said simply, his voice low and rough, just as a timer went off in the kitchen. 

“Oh, Sansa! Would you be a dear and help me in the kitchen?” Lucy stood and held her hand out to the younger woman. He felt Sansa hesitate beside him. She glanced back at him and he knew her fear, but he also knew Bill and Lucy well enough to know he could not deliver her into better hands. 

He lifted his hand and placed it flat against her lower back where Bill and Lucy couldn’t see, and he rubbed a couple small circles of reassurance through her thin shirt. The corners of her mouth came up briefly, and he tilted his head once in a nod he knew she would detect. A blink was her reply, and she took the older woman’s aid at getting off the couch and they walked into the kitchen. 

Bill watched them go, and then slid closer to Sandor on the other couch. He clasped his hands in front of him and spoke in a quiet voice, instantly causing the hairs on the back of Sandor’s neck to stand on end. 

“What is her story, Sandor? Is there something we need to know?” That Bill was speaking to him like this could only have meant that something was perhaps wrong. Bill and him were acquaintances, possibly even friends as he had told Sansa earlier, but Bill had never spoken to him in hushed tones about topics he obviously didn’t want anyone else to hear. 

“Why?” Sandor asked, revealing nothing. Sansa’s secrets were definitely not his to tell. 

Bill glanced back at the kitchen where they could hear the women’s muted voices. “There’s been a man asking about her in town,” he said. Sandor stood immediately, red seeping in from the corners of his eyes as a rage threatened to overtake him. He looked down at Bill, whose eyes became like saucers. Bill stood quickly as well, holding up both his hands in a calming gesture, and Sandor’s fists clenched and unclenched as Bill went on. “Now hold on, Sandor, that could mean anything. But I wanted you to know, because this man doesn’t look like he’s from around here.” 

“When…” Sandor ground out, knowing his ability to speak was going to be severely compromised by the constriction of his throat and the grinding of his teeth. 

“Just a few days ago,” said Bill, his expression growing more alarmed at Sandor’s reaction. “Lucy and I had planned on inviting the two of you over for dinner in the next month but decided to hasten our plans when this guy showed up at our store. Sandor, is she in trouble?” 

Sandor couldn’t breathe. He began to feel claustrophobic in the small house and he strode for the front door, needing fresh air. He heard Bill following him, but he didn’t care. If someone was after Sansa, Sandor would rip his throat out. 

“Sandor, I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s going on,” Bill was saying. “She’s a sweet girl and Lucy and I would want to help you in any way we can.” Sandor looked at him and he saw truth in the old man’s eyes. Gone was the laughing, good-natured shop owner, and in his place stood a man ready to fight for someone worth fighting for. 

Sandor growled. He couldn’t help it. He broke eye contact for a moment before turning back to Bill, attempting to force the words out of his chest. 

“She is being hunted,” he said simply, wanting to scream at the world for dealing her this shit. 

When Bill spoke it was quietly. “By the people who gave her those scars?” 

Sandor broke at that, his anger taking a back seat to the wave of love he felt for her. It was now that emotion that choked him, and he turned back to Bill. 

“Yes,” he rasped, and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids he could see every stripe of belt lashings on her skin, ever welt, every small, round cigarette burn. And along with those images came the scenes that must have played out when they had happened—Sansa in so much pain as faceless men took from her the basic human rights she had deserved. He had heard her cry out in pain before, from her night terrors, and had heard her scream as the men burned her skin, had even felt her fight them off with her feet, her fists, until she was a crumpled mess, crying in his arms. 

He felt sick to his stomach, and then dismayed as he felt tears prick his eyes. He turned his back on Bill. 

“Do you want to call the police?” Bill was asking. “Get the troopers to come in from Anchorage?” But Sandor shook his head. It was organized crime, and it was likely that the Baratheon family had ways of maneuvering around and hiding from law enforcement. 

“No,” he said, knowing he would protect her until his dying breath. 

“Then we need to come up with a plan,” Bill was saying, and Sandor turned to look at him. He could feel the skin of his scar tighten as he grimaced at the thought of bringing Bill and Lucy into Sansa’s fight. 

“I can’t ask that of you,” he said, and he meant it. But Bill shook his head. 

“I know you can’t, so I’m offering. “ He paused, looking uncomfortable and sad. “Are you going to tell Sansa?” 

Fuck. Sandor’s first instinct was to not tell her anything until the little shit showed his face at their cabin, so Sandor could eliminate him. But he also knew he would never lie to Sansa. He loved her too much to ever hurt her like that. 

He nodded, but he sighed heavily. 

“I understand,” Bill said. “She needs to know.” Then he added, “Call me tomorrow and let me know what your plan is. I’ll help in any way I can.” Sandor only nodded, and they stood out in the yard, neither of them speaking, both lost in their own thoughts until Sansa poked her head out the door. 

“Dinner’s ready,” came her sweet voice, and Sandor could have wept. He looked back at her, looked at how beautiful she was in that color blue and how it made her hair seem all the more carrot-colored, even in the fading light of evening. He couldn’t help himself—he sent her a small smile that was meant only for her, though he was sure Bill saw. In his peripheral vision he saw the older man’s cowboy hat lift slightly at the same time Bill’s eyebrows shot up. 

Sansa rewarded him with a radiant smile, and she looked down shyly as she closed the door and went back into the house. 

“She’s a special little lady,” Bill said, but he sounded as though he was testing the waters. Sandor shot him a look suggesting Bill keep the rest of his thoughts to himself. Bill chuckled, but Sandor did answer him. 

“Yes,” he said as they made their way back into the house. “Yes, she is.”

~*~

The rest of the evening was nothing short of miraculous to Sansa. She hadn’t felt this warmly received since her family had been alive. Lucy was a sweetheart and Sansa could easily see herself growing to love the woman.

Bill was also nice, a charmer who did his best to make Sansa laugh and to tease Sandor. He was definitely projecting a father persona to her and Sandor, and she found herself liking it. It was a bittersweet moment when she remembered her father and mother, and wished that they were still alive. But Sansa was also grateful for her time now with Lucy and Bill. 

The dinner casserole was amazing and she made sure Lucy knew. She sat across from Sandor at the small, square dining table and occasionally shot him glances while they ate. He didn’t participate in conversation much, and she was sure he was watching her more than normal. Of course he didn’t smile, but she also felt that he had something on his mind, as a few times it appeared he was no longer following the conversation. 

When it was time to go her small host came up to her to give her a big hug. 

“Sansa, don’t be a stranger. You are always welcome in our house.” Lucy’s assertion made Sansa’s eyes water, so she thanked the older woman and quickly walked out to join Bill and Sandor. 

“Sansa!” Bill greeted her loudly then wrapped her in a quick bear hug. Apparently she was going to have to get used to their tendencies to show affection physically with hugs. “You’ve made my wife very happy tonight,” he beamed at her. “I hope you realize that if Sandor is ever mean to you, you have a place to stay here.” 

Sansa’s eyes opened wide, shocked that he would say something like that in front of Sandor. But then he clapped Sandor hard on the back and laughed, continuing, “The same goes for you, Sandor. If this little lady gives you any grief, just come see Bill.” 

Sansa had to chuckle, though Sandor looked less than impressed with Bill’s humor. He helped her into the truck as they said their goodbyes and they pulled out of the driveway. 

Sansa was in good spirits, having just enjoyed her first real night of conversation in months. She enjoyed her time with Sandor and the silences they shared, but there was something to be said for having friends who knew how to speak. 

She glanced over at Sandor, whose face had turned stormy since they’d left. She wondered what was wrong, but at the same time she felt the warmth bloom in her chest. How had she been so lucky as to end up with property next to his? It easily could have been a woman, or someone less than desireable to be neighbors with. Or she could have found an isolated cabin and never had any neighbors to begin with. 

But somehow the fates saw fit to insert Sandor into her life just when she’d needed him. 

He glanced over at her, the scars casting shadows on his face in the dim light of the Alaskan sunset. He had something on his mind, she was sure of it, but she smiled at him anyway, loving the way his countenance made her heart do funny things. She loved him, and she was happy. 

Sandor looked back at the road and drove in silence, but Sansa watched him most of the way back to their properties. The mile long gravel driveway was smooth and well kept, winding and twisting through dense woods until it opened into the relative clearing where their cabins sat. He took the forked driveway to his cabin to park the truck and turned it off, but he didn’t get out. 

“Sansa,” he said, though he didn’t continue. His hands gripped the wheel still, and he looked out his side window, breathing deeply. 

“What is it, Sandor?” she asked gently. She had no idea what he could be thinking, though she wished she did. She’d be able to judge how to act around him better. 

He still didn’t answer, though he shook his head and looked straight at the steering wheel. It was then that she knew he was genuinely upset about something. She slid over on the bench seat and put her hand on his shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” 

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he let go of the steering wheel and reached up to take her hand in both of his, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. He turned then and looked her square in the eyes. 

“Someone in town is looking for you,” he said, and the world fell away from around her. She could see Sandor’s face, had heard his words but was deafened by the immediate pounding in her ears. 

“What do you mean?” she whispered, pulling her hand from his grasp. Somehow contact didn’t feel right at that moment. Sandor pursed his lips and shook his head again. 

“A man,” he said slowly, “Asking questions about you.” 

Sansa froze as that knowledge seeped into her brain. Then her shoulders fell, a feeling of defeat washing over her. So she’d been found. She turned, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular. She had known it would only be a matter of time but she supposed the solitude here in the woods and her growing feelings for Sandor had lulled her into a false sense of security. And Sandor had said he would protect her—had gone so far as to teach her how to shoot a gun—and she’d thought she could actually be safe. 

But safe was such a relative word, wasn’t it? She really could only depend on herself, could depend only on staying one step ahead of Joffrey. She had lost sight of that and had become complacent. And, she realized as tears came to her eyes, she had found herself dragging Sandor into it by association. 

She had to leave. All thoughts of him disappeared and her mind reverted to flight mode. She was already calculating how long it would take her to shove all her belongings into her car as she opened the door of the truck and slid out. 

In the distance she could hear Sandor saying her name, but she was too busy thinking about where she was going to stop for gas if she couldn’t stop in town. She couldn’t risk being seen, would have to cover her hair, erase all traces of her from the cabin. 

The paintings. Her blood ran cold at the paintings Sandor had done. Her heart twisted as she realized they would have to be destroyed. If for any reason Joffrey’s men entered Sandor’s cabin they shouldn’t be able to find any proof that she had been there. 

She strode towards her cabin, once again feeling ashamed that Sandor was now caught up in this. She didn’t want anything to happen to him. The sooner she left, the better. 

She no longer saw the things around her that had brought her joy. The shore disappeared and with it the campfire and the chairs. Her garden wasn’t there as she walked the path to her cabin. The bench on her porch had vanished. All she saw was her meager belongings and a map in her head of how to get out of this town. 

She was so lost in thought that when she felt a hand on her arm she immediately thought the worst. It had to be one of Joffrey’s men—or worse, Joffrey himself. She cried out, only knowing that the hand was strong and not realizing whom it belonged to. She turned quickly and flung her hands out, her fist making contact with a face as she struggled and screamed against her attacker, as somewhere deep in her mind she heard Sandor saying her name over and over again. 

Then strong arms encircled her body, locking her arms to her side as she kicked and struggled and attempted to bite her way out of his hold. She shivered as she felt a face by her ear, but then froze when she realized the sound coming out of the mouth was indeed Sandor’s. 

“It’s me, Sansa! Stop struggling!” He sounded panicked, and it was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown on her. She was so worked up about the possibility of being found that she forgot she had returned to the cabin with him. 

“Sandor,” she gasped, her heart hammering in her chest. “Sandor!” she said more urgently, and she knew no other emotion at that moment but to get as far from him as she could. “Let me go!” she cried, struggling against his grasp. “Let me go,” she said again. “I need to get away from here!” 

But he wouldn’t let her go, didn’t release his vice grip on her. She began to panic, feeling as though every wasted minute was a minute where she could be packing, driving away--saving him. 

“I will not,” he ground out, but still she thrashed about, attempting to break his hold. She felt herself being picked up and then they were both falling onto her bed. It took her a moment before she realized he had imprisoned her under his body, with his forearms bracketing her shoulders and head, holding onto her wrists on her pillow. He used his torso to push her into the mattress and his legs to straddle her, using his ankles to lock over her lower legs. The only free part of her body now was her face, and she used it against him, telling him over and over to let her go. 

“I need to get out of here,” she cried, panicking underneath his heavy body. “You don’t understand! They’re MONSTERS, Sandor! They won’t hesitate to torture you as they have done to me. They’re not human, and I need to get out of here fast.” She tried lifting her chest and bucking him off her but was met with a solid wall of resistance. He didn’t budge. She felt herself losing the battle. 

“Please!” she cried, tears pooling in her eyes. “Sandor, please let me go! They’ll kill you!” 

At those words she stopped struggling and gave into the tears that she had managed to keep at bay with her fear. She squeezed her eyes shut and wailed, letting her body jerk against him one last time but knowing it wouldn’t do any good. She turned her head aside wishing he wouldn’t be so close to her, wishing his face wasn’t hovering inches from hers and that she wasn’t now a crumbled mess of insecurity and fright underneath him. 

But he didn’t move, and he still held her, probably wondering when she was going to start struggling again. But the fight had left her, and what remained was a scared shell of a woman, feeling no longer in control of her own life.

~*~

Sandor had panicked when he realized what she was doing, and so he’d attempted to stop her. But he hadn’t expected the sudden change in her when he’d put his hand on her arm. Alarmed at her reaction, he hadn’t seen her fist coming until it had connected with his cheekbone. It wasn’t the hardest hit he’d ever felt, but it caught him off guard enough to want to prevent it from happening again.

So when he had wrapped her in his arms and tried speaking her name again, he was again surprised that she hadn’t calmed. Her fighting continued, and he’d felt it even though she had become aware that it was him holding her and not one of Joffrey’s men. 

Her pleas were all accompanied by struggle, and he felt that he had no choice but to restrain her on the bed to stop her from hurting him and possibly hurting herself. He locked her body to the mattress and waited, knowing that eventually she would calm down. 

The struggle had worn him out as well, so when she calmed and started to cry, he lowered his face to the crook of her neck, not knowing what to do. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said, and he was. He was sorry to be the one to break the news to her, sorry about the news he’d had to break, sorry that he couldn’t prevent her from being scared. He was sorry that he was having to use physical force to calm her, and sorry that she was now limp and crying beneath him. He knew she was scared, but he also knew now that one of her prime concerns was his safety. “They’ll kill you,” she had said, and his heart had twisted. He knew she cared for him, but he anguished that part of her alarm was due to her concern for his safety. He hadn’t ever wanted to be a source of pain for her again. 

He moved his legs so he wasn’t pinning down her calves any more, though he didn’t get up. He lifted his face to look at her, but she was still crying and he was wary of releasing her. 

He had to do something to calm her, to reassure her. At this point he didn’t think physical touch was the right path, or anymore than the current contact between their bodies, so he instead shushed her. 

“Sansa.” He spoke her name softly and saw her squeeze her eyes shut just a bit harder. “Sansa, look at me.” But she wouldn’t, so he let go of her wrists and brought her face around to his with the tip of his fingers. He wiped tears away from her face with the pads of his thumbs, and stroked her hair away from her forehead. 

“Look at me,” he entreated again, and this time her eyes cracked open, looking so sad and torn as she looked up at him that he had to close his eyes for a moment. 

There was no help for it—he had to tell her what she meant to him now, to let her know that he would never let her go unprotected again. 

“Sansa, I—“ he started, but he stopped. He knew deep down that he could do this, but it was so difficult. He had never opened up his heart to anyone in this manner. But she was looking up at him, half looking like she wanted to hear what he had to say and half looking like nothing he could say would make her want to stay. So he trudged on ahead. 

“I care for you,” he said, though it sounded hollow to his own ears. 

He turned away and sighed heavily, changing tactics. He slid to her side but left his body in contact with hers from shoulder to knee. He propped himself up on an elbow and let his other hand lift to her face, stroking her cheek in hopes of soothing her troubled heart. 

Her face followed him but tears still came from the corners of her eyes. “I need to leave,” she whispered, but she didn’t move. Sandor’s heart twisted at her assertion, knowing that deep down she felt that it was the right thing to do. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew he couldn’t stop her, so he said the only thing he could think of in that moment. 

“I will come with you.” He wanted to continue, to say something else, but she didn’t give him the chance. She closed her eyes and wept then, obviously overcome by the things she had learned this evening. He pulled her close and held her against his chest as she cried. 

It was some time later that she quieted and sniffed. He stroked her hair, her back, and sat silently as she came to terms with what was going on. When she spoke it was through a few hiccups. 

“Sandor I—I won’t ask you to come with—me.” She stared at his chest and softly played with the folds of the button up shirt he’d worn to dinner. “Your life is—here and,” she paused, hiccupping and taking a deep breath, “And I think I’ll be running forever.” 

Sandor sighed against her hair, loving how she felt in his arms. They fit so well together, and she was warm and soft. Holding her like he was now felt right. 

“I will, though,” he rasped against her hair. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His hand stopped against her hair. “I—“ he paused. He hadn’t realized this would be so hard. “Love… you…” he whispered, but he didn’t wait for her reaction. He knew his words rang true and that she would see them for what they were. “I would follow you anywhere,” he said more assertively, holding her close. 

Her hand had stopped playing with his buttons and he felt her hold her breath for a beat. But then her arm snaked around him to anchor at his back and she pulled herself closer to him, pressing her face against his chest. It was such a poignant move, and he knew she was answering him, accepting him for what he was, accepting his words for what he’d said, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t known he was holding. 

“Sansa,” he murmured into her hair, knowing that she was communicating with him but wishing for once she would use words instead of actions. 

Then she pulled away and rose up on an elbow, bringing her face over his as she looked down at him. He got the feeling she was savoring him, savoring the moment. Her eyes were red and she wasn’t smiling, but she was looking at him intently, studying not only his eyes but his scar as she touched it, his nose as she ran a finger down it, his lips as she slid her finger over them. Then she closed her eyes and bent to kiss him, and he wrapped his arm around her back gently, showing her that he could support her, love her, and cherish her. 

Her kiss was achingly slow but he knew what she needed. She didn’t need passion at that moment, and she didn’t need him to ravish her. But what she needed was for him to slide his fingers into her hair, to cradle her head in his hands and for him to kiss her as though he could tell her of his love with the movements of his mouth. 

In answer she lifted her face to look at him, and in her eyes he saw his feelings for her mirrored in the blue depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a shorter chapter, I think, than my others. But I hope you like where I'm taking these two. I spent too many nights plugging away at crochet projects to avoid making a decision as to what I wanted to add or take away from this story. 
> 
> Thank you all again for your support, and for reading my fic!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think y'all have been waiting for this!

Sansa was torn. She loved that Sandor loved her, had been so surprised when he’d said it but also so incredibly relieved. It wasn’t one-sided after all, and now she could show him what he meant to her without reservation. 

But he’d said he would follow her. Was that what she really wanted? Was she willing to put him in the same danger that she was in? 

Though she supposed it wasn’t really hers to decide. Sandor had made up his mind, was resolutely showing her with his kiss and his movements and words that he wasn’t going to let her go. The thought warmed her heart and filled her soul with such a gladness that it seemed to overflow through her eyes. A teardrop fell onto his cheek and she chuckled, embarrassed. But she lowered her mouth to his face and kissed it off his scarred skin, and then placed another kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

No, whether he came with her wasn’t up to her. He said he would follow her anywhere, and she had to concur. She honestly did feel that he was as much a part of her as her own arm, and had known it would tear her heart out if she had to leave him. 

But could they leave this place? She thought of her small, quaint cabin, the evenings they spent having coffee on the shore, the meals they shared in companionable silence, and that incredible morning where they had created fire between them in his bed. She thought of all the times he had watched her as she worked in the garden, or gazed upon her as she sipped her morning coffee, and of the times she watched him paint and the way his back rippled with muscle as he brought an ax down on a piece of wood. 

Of course, they could make memories elsewhere, she thought as she kissed his scarred cheek, moving up to the corner of his eye, his temple, and his forehead. They could make memories, yes, and build a life, in a new cabin and in a new part of the country. 

As she kissed her way back down the other side of his face, over the edge of his beard and back to his waiting lips, she also knew they could never be safe. That they would never stop running away from her past. His mouth opened as her tongue slid across his lower lip, and she ventured inside, finding him waiting to tangle there with her. She rested a hand against his scarred temple and felt his hands, one wrapping around her shoulder and one sliding down to rest low on her hip. 

No, they would run forever and never have peace, and she longed for peace—knew that it would largely come with having him in her life. 

She sighed against his skin and pulled away yet again, though closer this time, so that their breaths mingled in the small space between them. With eyes clearer than they had ever been, she knew what they would do about her situation, but she pushed it out of her mind. There’d be time enough later to explore that. 

For now she looked into his gray depths, the short, thick lashes on his left eye casting shadows against his skin. At such a close distance she could see details she hadn’t seen before, details that she now slid a finger over with a feather-light touch—the few gray hairs buried deep in his beard, the thickness of his mustache over his upper lip, the jagged edge of hair running the length of his cheek where his beard ended and his scar began. And there were the creases at the corner of his left eye, the smooth skin of his forehead on that side, the lines between his eyebrow and his scar that appeared deeper when he was upset. 

Her gaze fell to his lips once more and she knew she could stare at his mouth forever. That mouth had power over her, with its words, its ministrations, and she stroked it reverently now, allowing him to draw her fingertip into his mouth when she got too close. As she drew it out and across the width of his lower lip, dragging with it the wetness, she looked into his eyes and whispered, “I love you too, Sandor.”

~*~

Sandor couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He froze, lips parted, staring into her blue eyes but barely comprehending what she’d said. The last time someone had told him they loved him was his mom when he was a child. Hell, the last time someone had loved him was when he was a child. He searched her eyes for any signs of untruth or uncertainty. But he saw none. Hope bloomed in his chest as she smiled at him. Then he was smiling at her before he realized he hadn’t closed his mouth. 

Her gaze dropped to his lips and he saw the surprise in her expression. It was his first true smile in decades and it felt odd. He could feel the pull of his scar and its unwillingness to bend at the muscle movement under the skin. 

But then there was sweet relief when she bent once again to kiss at his lips, and this time she kissed him with her whole body—a hand in his hair, her eyes closed and her mouth feeling so soft and pliant above his. Her breasts were pressed to his side, her leg wrapped around his thigh and her pelvis moving against him in soft, gentle movements. 

And then she whispered words he had been wanting to hear for so long, words he hadn't known would mean so much to him. 

"I want you," came her soft voice against his lips, and in that moment he felt again that he would never leave her, never hurt her, never let her go. 

He reached down as they kissed and pulled her shirt up slowly, over her shoulders and then over her head as she helped him. She lay on top of him then in a blue bra that contrasted perfectly with her ivory skin. 

His hands roamed over her, feeling the scars under his fingertips and loving her with his hands. He felt the small curve of her waist, the indent of her spine, the swell of her hips and the roundness of her shoulders. And as his hands roamed her exposed skin, she moaned into his mouth, showing him that she was enjoying all that he was doing to her. 

Then she paused and sat back, pushing against him until she was on her knees. He sat with her and she reached for the hem of his shirt, words in that moment unnecessary. He lifted his arms and brushed his hair out of his face when she'd pulled the shirt over his head. For a moment they looked at each other, but then their mutual smiles collided and she leaned forward, kissing him without hands. Hers were on her thighs and his were on the bed, holding him upright. 

It was by far the sexiest kiss Sandor had ever experienced. Not touching except for where their thighs met, she kissed his lips and tasted him, nibbling at them and pulling his lower lip into her mouth. And her tongue would come out to tease him as he'd lean closer and capture her mouth, feeling the smoothness of her skin. Eyes closed, he felt that this could have been heaven. 

But then she was putting her hands on his chest, not hard enough to push him back but in a light manner that spoke of her desire to touch him, to feel him again. She ran her hands over his chest, sliding them over his nipples and down to his stomach, then back up again. As they kissed her hands roamed his shoulders, felt the scar on his right shoulder and the smoothness of his left. Then she ran her hands down his arms, giving his triceps a squeeze. Again she moaned and he'd never felt so sexy, so appreciated in his entire life. Just the mere act of touching him was turning her on. 

She leaned back, breaking their kiss despite his not wanting to. But she stood then, and when her hands went to the button on her jeans he pulled himself to the edge of the bed and reached for her, pulling at the hand that would have unbuttoned them. 

When she stood between his legs he looked up at her, his gaze level with her breasts as he gazed into her beautiful blue eyes. She looked down at him then, shyly tracing her fingertips over his face as he had found she liked to do. She smiled and he smiled back, then moved forward and pressed a kiss to her chest, right between her breasts. 

If she had thought that area was where he was going to concentrate, she was wrong. He kissed lower, moving down her stomach as he unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. Then he dragged them down at the same time he slid off the bed, kneeling in front of her to help her slip the tight jeans off her ankles. 

When they had been discarded he looked at her, the matching cornflower-blue panties and bra so beautiful against her red hair and white skin. A particularly nasty scar above her belly button caught his eye and he leaned close to kiss it, then drew his tongue across its surface before kissing it again. And there were more to either side, which he treated with the same reverence. He didn't look her in the eye as he did this, but instead felt her hands as she smoothed them over his hair, drawing her fingers through the length of it. It made his scalp tingle and he liked it, liked the way her hands felt on him. 

But when he ran out of scars to kiss outside of the fabric, he used one finger to pull down the front of her panties, just enough to see auburn hair peeking out the top. He placed a kiss there and her hands then grabbed his hair, no longer gentle. She gasped and their eyes connected as Sandor used two fingers to drag the panties down her legs. 

She stared at him, mouth open in desire as he pulled them off her legs, and he knew she would be embarrassed at being so exposed to him. So he stood, putting off what he very intensely wanted to do with her. 

Instead he gently put his hands on her shoulders, her questioning gaze meeting his before he gently turned her so her back was him. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her down onto his lap, leaning her forward so he could unhook her bra. 

Sansa gasped again, though she didn't stop him as he pulled the bra forward and off her arms, dropping it to the floor. But she did stay leaning forward a bit, hiding her front from him. 

He wanted to ease her into physical touch, so he used the opportunity to try to avoid looking down at her beautiful butt, and slowly glided his hands over the skin of her back, so beautifully marred by scars that it brought tears to his eyes. She was so precious, so wonderful in every way. He leaned forward to kiss the middle of her back and her head fell, though why, he didn't know. Embarrassment? Surrender? He continued stroking her, pressing kisses to the areas of her back he could reach. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back a little bit until she was sitting almost upright, and he kissed the backs of her shoulders, pulled her hair aside and over her shoulder to expose the base of her neck to his mouth and tongue. 

A shiver wracked her body at that and she sighed. She turned her head to the side, not able to see him from that position but showing him that she was smiling slightly. So he pulled her back until her back was resting against his chest and he could see her arms crossed over her breasts. 

He didn't mind, knew he wanted to take it slow with her. He could only imagine what her last sexual encounter had been like, and this one, he was determined, would erase all memories of her nightmares while they were together. 

So he stroked his fingertips over the tops of her shoulders, down her upper arms and back, then up the side of her neck to the sensitive skin behind her ear. She tilted her head to the opposite side and closed her eyes, sighing. He pressed soft kisses to that skin as his fingertips travelled to her forearms, his mouth working the softness behind her ear as his hands coaxed her arms to uncover her chest. 

She did, though very slowly, and he was rewarded by the view of her beautiful breasts, so soft and round, small white mounds tipped in rosy pink. He felt his own arousal painfully straining against his jeans but ignored it, more concerned with making her feel safe and loved in his arms. 

He whispered that to her now, his breath tickling at her ear, telling her he loved her. She sighed again and her hand came up to caress the side of his face, and she turned more towards him then, enough for him to capture her lips in a kiss. And as she kissed him back he stroked down the underside of her arm, over the side of her chest and underneath her breast, softly tracing the lower curve of soft skin. Then he did the same on the left side so that both of his hands were flat against her rib cage. 

Her kiss faltered but she maintained it, and when his fingers brushed the underside of both breasts he felt her push her chest forward and he accepted the invitation, sliding his hands up and over her nipples to cup them softly. He was rewarded with a whimper into his mouth. 

They were perfect—small but filling his palms, and he caressed them with a loving gentleness that until he met her he hadn't known he possessed. 

She broke the kiss and let her head fall back against his shoulder, one hand still cupping his head and one down at her side, hand on his forearm. As he used those fingers to play with her nipple she covered his hand in hers, not to stop him but to feel his movements as he stroked the tiny bud of hardened skin. When his other hand mirrored his movements on the other side she moaned, breathing his name, "Sandor," as a sigh. 

He took his free hand over her chest and up the arm that she had behind his head. Then he retraced its path, down her arm and over the sensitive skin of her breast, and down further still, over the scars on her stomach until his hand rested atop her thigh with his fingertips resting in the juncture of her thighs. 

"Open for me, Sansa," he prompted her and though she hesitated, she slowly opened her thighs, but turning her head away from him at the same time. He immediately stopped touching her breast and brought that hand up to turn her chin back towards him. 

"Sansa." His voice came out in an aroused growl, but he didn't want to push her. He put both of his hands on her hips and pressed his mouth to hers, letting her know that they would only do what she wanted to do, what she approved of. 

But as he kissed her he felt her relax, felt her muscles loosen and she slid her hand down to his, even as their tongues tangled. She pulled his hand up over her thigh and then held it there, mere inches away from her center. 

"Sandor," she breathed, and he knew it was the permission he sought. With one hand he stroked her face as his other crept down, into the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Her hand stayed on his, as though poised to stop him at any moment, but she didn't. 

When he slid them down to touch her folds he found her wet, and he groaned, feeling his own pulsing arousal. With a will of steel he tamped down his own desire, wishing this moment to pleasure her and her alone, although he was in fact getting an immense amount of pleasure from exploring her body, he had to admit. As his fingers slid up and down, finding and teasing the sensitive nub of flesh, his other hand went back to her breast and teased and touched her nipple. 

She started to move, her body seeming to not know what to do with itself as her climax built within her, and when he felt she was close he put his mouth on the base of her neck and sucked, marking her as his.

~*~

Sansa tensed at the combination of movements, but didn't stop him or pull away. Her arm wrapped around his neck and she pulled his face into her neck, feeling herself quickly building towards release. She whimpered as his fingers moved faster, using her own wetness as lubrication. Just as he put his whole palm on her breast and squeezed, he growled against the skin of her neck and she was lost, suddenly tripping over the precipice as an explosion of arousal radiated out from her core. 

It was so erotic, Sansa thought as she came down from her high, leaning against his chest. He used his fingers against her until her tremors had subsided and then he stroked her lower belly, just above her curls, from side to side. She became fully aware that she sat on his lap, completely naked and open to him. 

She closed her eyes and pushed away the self-conscious thoughts that tried popping into her mind. Sandor had just given her the most amazing climax of her life, and she felt so special now, wrapped in his arms. 

She sighed deeply, but knew the evening wasn't over. Behind her she felt the press of his length against her back, so she took a deep breath, mentally reminding herself that this was the man she loved. She would do anything for him. 

So Sansa slowly stood and his arms slipped away, but she turned to face him, arms down at her sides. First she let him look at her, and his eyes darkened as he took in her body. He wasn't smiling but for just a moment his tongue darted out and he licked his lips. She blushed because Sandor looked as though he could eat her alive. 

He stood suddenly, and wrapped her in his arms. "We can stop there if you like," he ground out, but she knew he didn't really want to. And truth be told, she wasn't done with their evening, either. Tonight was their night and she was going to please him as he had pleased her. She wanted to, yearning to give him the same pleasure. So when she looked up at him she pulled his head down for a searing kiss, showing him how much what he had just done meant to her. She could feel his arousal and pressed herself against it, letting him know without words that she knew of his need. 

Sansa backed up a step and reached for the waistband of his jeans. Sandor let her, though he watched intently as she unfastened them and slid them down his legs, bending to help him kick them off. Then on her way up she pulled his boxers down, having to maneuver them over his jutting member. She looked up at him shyly and he watched her, not saying anything, as she wrapped her hand around him and started to move up and down his length. Sandor's head fell back and he growled, a sound that was starting to set her nerves to tingling. 

But then his hands were on her shoulders and he was turning her to the bed. At first she thought he'd meant to jump right to sex, but then he lowered himself down onto the bed, hovering over her, and he kissed her passionately, his beard scratching at her face. 

"If you want more," he whispered in a raspy voice against her lips, "I'm not done with you." Then he looked into her eyes and the emotion she saw in them almost scared her. But she trusted him, knew deep down in her heart that he would never hurt her. 

She put both hands on either side of his face and kissed him soundly. Then she said, "I trust you," just before he started kissing a trail down her body. 

He nibbled at her neck, tasted her collarbone, and then took the peak of a breast into his mouth and she nearly came off the bed. "Sandor!" she cried out, but he kept a grip on her, sucking and laving at her nipple before moving onto the other. As he settled his body between her legs she felt that she needed more, needed HIM, but he wasn't willing to give her what she wanted. 

Getting frustrated and intensely aroused at the same time was new to her, but her pout disappeared when he pressed a soft kiss to the curls between her legs. 

"Sandor," she breathed again, her mouth open and her hand resting tentatively on his head. He looked up at her but made no move to stop what he was doing. Quite the opposite—he smiled at her. Sansa let out a startled chuckle but nearly choked on it when he lowered his mouth to her. 

Her fingers were no longer gentle in his hair, but tight and forceful as she endured his intense movements. And she found that she could not lay still, so strong were her body's reactions to his tongue, his lips and his teeth as they tormented her. He held one leg over his shoulder and put a palm on her stomach to hold her to the bed, but in barely a minute of him lapping and tasting and teasing her, her second climax ripped through her body and she nearly screamed with the force of it. 

Sandor gave her no time to recover, as suddenly he was between her legs, kissing her with her scent and taste on his lips. It was heady, intoxicating, knowing that he had just been down THERE and how he had sent her over the edge in such a short amount of time, and that now he was kissing her, driving her insane with want, and she could taste it, could taste what had driven him mad with arousal. 

"Sandor, I want you," she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding his mouth to hers as she kissed and licked at him, grasping his lower lip between her teeth. "I need you," she whispered fervently, loving the feel of his hair as it fell across them, a curtain around them, guarding them both as it had once done for him. And she felt him, poised at her entrance but waiting, ever waiting for her permission. 

"Yes," she cried out, and she wrapped her legs around the backs of his thighs and pulled hard, just as he thrust himself into her. The intrusion was intense, almost too much for a beat, but then he started to move and she moaned against his shoulder. 

It was as though he was made for her, made to be there, inside her, on top of her, wrapped in her arms and in her legs with his body poised over hers. He moved and she felt the length of him, coming out and then thrusting back in, and with each thrust she let out a deep breath, her mouth open, whimpering but not being able to get close enough. She wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled on him, urged him on with her legs, lifted her hips to meet his but she somehow felt that it would never be enough. 

But then she felt the building sensation in the pit of her stomach, and she knew that she would climax a third time. It seemed as though Sandor felt it too, because before long he was reaching down to grasp one of her legs, hooking it around his elbow. The new angle meant he was reaching depths of her he hadn't been able to a moment before, and as her own climax rushed through her like a storm she felt his body tense, felt him lose his rhythm as he spilled himself deep inside her, growling into the skin at the base of her neck. 

He stayed where he was, still inside her, hovering over her for a moment, before pulling to the side and wrapping his arms around her. There was nothing to be said. Sansa snuggled against his chest, for once in her life feeling utterly spent and complete, cherished and loved. She wanted Sandor to feel the same but didn't want to ask him, didn't want to ruin the moment with words. 

So she rolled out of his arms and onto her back, pulling him at an angle with her so that he was lower on the bed. She guided his head to her chest, his arms around her, and she tilted her body towards his so she could wrap her arms around his head and his shoulders. 

She wanted him to feel her heartbeat, to hear how he made it speed up, and willed him to feel her love for him. She stroked his hair, his shoulder, his scar lovingly and softly. She kissed the top of his head and sighed into his hair, feeling that this was utterly and truly what it meant to be in love. Sandor in turn wrapped a large muscled arm around her waist and pulled her close. 

He seemed to enjoy it too. Occasionally he would press a kiss to her chest or the swell of her breast, but for the most part he stayed still, except to drag a blanket over them. Then he traced lazy circles over her stomach, not stopping for any scars but instead making uninterrupted shapes over the top of them. She liked that. 

Sansa knew their troubles could wait until tomorrow. For now she wanted to enjoy this, the ultimate level that Sandor and she had finally reached in their relationship. She wanted to savor the feel of him in her arms, because one truly never knew what the future held. But she knew that this was a moment she would never forget. 

She woke in the middle of the night with her back cuddled up to Sandor's stomach. He was tracing his finger lightly over the outside of her thigh, over the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist, and back again. She leaned back to look at him in the dim light and smiled, drawing his mouth down to her with a hand on his cheek to kiss him sweetly, lovingly. They made love a second time, though this time it was slow, a forging together of their bodies and spirits. They had no plans, nowhere to go, nothing to do except to enjoy the feel of their bodies coming together. 

Sansa fell asleep once again completely sated, in Sandor's arms, feeling utterly and completely loved and fulfilled.

~*~

Sandor awoke to the sounds of Sansa pouring two cups of coffee. She had her back to him, and all he had to do was open his eyes to watch her move about her small kitchen. She wore his t-shirt and, he suspected, nothing else. It was a sight that both warmed and twisted his heart. 

He had no idea how he had gotten so lucky. This woman was so special, so amazing, and for some strange reason she had chosen him. After the night they'd just had, he was determined to never let her go. 

He marveled at how she made him feel about his scar. It was still there, but the way she touched it, stroked it, kissed it from his scalp to the top of his shoulder, she made him feel like it was simply a part of him, just another part to be loved rather than abhorred. She looked at him like he was the sun, like he was her source of light, of happiness. But he knew it was the other way around—she made him want to live, to be a better man, and to show her exactly how she deserved to be treated and loved. She brought all of this out of him, and it was nothing short of a miracle. 

That word made him think of the night before when he had found himself smiling. Smiling! God's honest, genuine, show-your-teeth smiling. It had likely surprised him as much as it had her, but the way it seemed to ignite her love for him, and how his smile was brilliantly reflected on her own face, made him sure that he would try it again, and soon. 

Sansa's hair was hanging down her back, nearly to her waist. He remembered bringing it to his face last night, inhaling deeply as she slept. It was so soft, and an extension of her that he loved. It swayed now as she moved about, obviously unaware that he was awake. 

He could see the shape of her bottom through the shirt and remembered his hands on it last night, remembered the roundness and the softness of the skin there. He could see her long, shapely legs and he remembered how they had felt wrapped around him, how he had been able to drag one of them up on his arm while he thrust into her, making her whimper and cry out. 

Fuck, he was hard again. He remembered every little detail of their night together—seriously doubted that he would ever forget any of it—and he wanted her once more. 

At that thought she turned, her mug of coffee in her hand, halfway to her mouth. She paused though, frozen for a moment as he looked at her, her bow shaped lips open and so alluring. He purposefully roamed his eyes from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and back again, so that she could see what she did to him. 

He was a man with a purpose, and he sat up and swung his legs so that his feet hit the floor. He kept the sheet over his groin but there was no denying what he hid there. He watched as she placed her cup back on the counter, never taking her eyes off his face, and walked back over to him. He had no idea what she was going to do and his heart sped up. His mouth went dry. He could swear there was ringing in his ears, as she climbed onto him and straddled his lap. Then she wrapped her arms around his back and neck, rubbed her core purposefully against his hardness, and kissed him feverishly with no "Good morning" or "What are we doing today?" 

Sandor clasped her to him and urged her on, the friction she was causing so delicious and enticing that he felt as though he could come just from that contact. But then she reached down between them and pulled the sheet out of the way, and his eyes opened wide as he watched her hand guide his arousal under the edge of the shirt and against her core, already wet for him. Her head fell back, her hands grasped his hair, and she closed her eyes and sighed with such sexual relief as she sunk down on him that Sandor knew he wasn't going to last long. 

He grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up and over Sansa’s head, revealing to him her bare breasts. There was no self-consciousness in her gaze as those beautiful blue eyes looked down at him, her mouth still parted as she rose and fell on his lap, drawing him deeper into her with each movement. She rested her forehead against his as she rocked her hips, her breath fanning his face as she began to breathe faster, harder, until her breaths turned into moans and whimpers and he knew she was close. 

Fuck, it felt so good and Sandor didn't want to come before she did. He reached with one hand between their bodies and found her sensitive nub with the pad of his middle finger and rubbed with the same pace that she was moving with. He felt her start to lose her rhythm, but her quick breathing, her open mouth showed him she was climaxing so he bent down to take one of her breasts into his mouth, sucking hard as she shivered and trembled. Then he put his hands under her bottom and held her to him as he flipped her onto her back and they both fell to the bed, still connected. 

He pumped into her, feeling like she could use slow and leisurely but not being able to give it to her. She was wildly turned on, scratching at his back as he thrust powerfully into her. He was so fucking excited that he lost control and climaxed with a few last powerful thrusts. 

Then he collapsed beside her on the bed, barely able to move. Was last night the most erotic moment of his life? Or when they woke up and made love slowly? Or was this it, her riding him until completion and then him taking over for his own orgasm? 

Shit, he didn't know. She was going to be the death of him, he knew it. She would give him a heart attack if they continued on as they were. 

But it didn't matter, not really. He would die a happy man if she continued to love him, care for him, and ride him like a crazy mare in heat. 

Better not tell her of that comparison, he thought now as she lazily drew her finger over the fine hairs on his stomach. They both seemed to like doing that—simple caresses, soft touches, and if Sandor weren't so fucking worn out, he likely would have been hard again. 

As it was, he scooped her back into him, her back to his front, and threw a leg over hers. She hugged his arm tightly to her chest and rested her cheek on the back of his hand, and there they dozed until they both felt it was time to face the world again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst! Some fluff. 
> 
> Warning for violence <3 please don't be discouraged!

It was about 9am when Sansa felt the need to go into her little bathroom and relieve herself. She slipped out of Sandor's arms and glanced back at him, somewhat surprised to see that he was awake and looking at her. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen, up on his elbow with the scarred side of his face resting on his hand as he looked at her. He wasn't smiling but that didn't matter. There was a new heat in his eyes when he looked at her, and it made her insides warm. 

Before going into the bathroom she grabbed some clothes, letting him know that she really shouldn't join him again in bed when she was done. They did have a lot to talk about, whether he liked it or not. She hadn't forgotten his declaration last night, nor her as of yet unsaid reply—he said he would follow her anywhere, but she didn't want to leave this place. This was her home now, his home, and she wanted to stay. 

She took a quick shower and dressed, brushing out her wet hair before she left the bathroom. Sandor was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in his clothes from yesterday but looking awake and refreshed. He didn't stand when she came out, though she had expected a type of greeting. 

His hands were clasped between his knees and he looked down at them before bringing his eyes back up to hers. He looked awkward now, she realized, and she almost laughed out loud. Was he at ease without their clothes, but now that they were dressed, he was back to being a social outcast? 

She decided to test her theory. She walked up to him so that she stood inches away from his knees. For all the affection they shared over the course of the night she would expect him to reach out and touch her somehow. He didn't, but he awkwardly looked up into her eyes again. 

His eyes spoke for him—his brow was furrowed slightly, and he looked cautious. Was he afraid that she was going to leave? Say she didn't want him to follow her? 

Sansa's awkwardness with Sandor had melted away, and now she felt that she couldn't get close enough to him. She had daydreamed about him for months, had spent months watching him work, admiring his body, admiring him as a man, and now she didn't want to go anywhere without him. 

So she put an arm around his neck and sat on his thigh with her legs between his. Sandor's eyes widened for a moment and she smiled softly at him, not wanting him to be startled. 

With a hand on his back and one on his chest, she pressed a soft, loving kiss to his cheek. "Sandor, I like your hugs," she assured him. "I like your touches, your caresses." She lifted a hand to his hair and gently pulled her fingers through it. His eyes closed and he sighed at the contact so she did it again, and again as she moved her hand around his scalp, drawing his hair lightly from scalp to tip through her fingers. 

"I want to touch you," she whispered into his ear, "And I want you to be able to touch me." She pulled back and he opened his eyes to look at her. They were softer now, not as anxious as before. Sansa blushed as she said, "We know we are compatible in bed." Sandor snorted his agreement and she shyly continued, "I want to show you that we are compatible outside of the bed. And that includes you touching me," she coaxed. 

She took his hand and put it on her waist. "You can hold me," she showed him, "and touch me," she said as she brought his hand up to her shoulder and rubbed it down to her elbow. Then she reached back and gathered her hair into her hand, and smiled as she rubbed it against his face. "You can touch my hair as I've done with you." 

Sandor looked strained again, and she knew this was a hurdle that he'd work to get over, though she didn't know how long it would take. He had spent years resisting contact with other people, doing everything he could to avoid it in fact. Now she was going to help him come back from that, a little at a time. 

And she suspected, judging by their coming together last night and the heat with which they touched and used each other's bodies, he wasn't going to have any trouble at night. 

With one finger she tilted his face to hers and pressed a kiss to his lips, pleased when he immediately raised a hand to rest behind her head and deepened the kiss. She felt a stirring between her legs as his tongue traced her lips and delved into her mouth. Sandor came alive under her hands during their kiss, and she happily tucked that information away as she broke the kiss with a smile and rose from his lap. 

His hands trailed off her body and clasped again in front of him, as though without her in them he didn't know what to do with them. Love squeezed her heart and she leaned down to kiss his cheek. She whispered, "I love you," testing it to see how it sounded in the light of day. 

Sandor growled lightly and reached out to grasp her hand, trapping her as he pulled her mouth down to his for a short, searing kiss. He was answering her, responding with the love she now knew he harbored inside him, and her heart sung at the knowledge that he hadn't forgotten. 

She made some quick breakfast burritos and they sat at her small table after Sandor had used her bathroom. Hot coffees sat between their plates as they ate in silence, but Sansa's thoughts turned to the man who had been asking questions in town. 

A shiver ran through her as she wondered out loud who it was. Sansa looked over at Sandor. "I don't want you to get hurt," she said, knowing that it would kill her if anything happened to him. Sandor just shook his head and took another bite of burrito. 

When he was done he took a drink of coffee and said simply, "We will stay together." It was the first thing he'd said to her since the previous night and the sound of his voice comforted her. She waited for him to say more, which she didn't often do, but this situation warranted a bit more than that one assertion. 

"What do you mean?" She asked, hoping he would respond. 

Sandor took a minute to answer. He took another drink of coffee before answering, "I won't leave you unprotected—you'll stay with me. All the time." 

Sansa blinked. Well, then... She hadn't expected that answer. Inwardly she both bristled at being told what to do, and smiled at his male protectiveness. She knew he was just trying to help, and that he cared for her—loved her!--and wanted to protect her. He lacked conversational courtesy, but she knew it was just due to the absence of social interaction over his years of self-imposed exile. If she was going to stay here long term, which she definitely saw in their future now, she felt it would be best to remind herself of this often. 

And besides, Sandor didn't know that she was thinking if they stayed together, she'd be able to protect him as well. They could look out for each other. 

"It's only a matter of time before someone comes down here looking for me," she said. She didn't like her next thought. "I guess that means I have to live in fear until it happens. Should we call the police?" 

Sandor shook his head before brushing his long hair out of his face. "No," he said simply, and then he seemed to be pondering something as he chewed a bite and looked out the window. It took a while before he spoke again, and when he did so it was slowly, deliberately. "You should not be outside." He looked at her and then away again, and when he brought his gaze back to her it was very intense, serious. "If anyone comes, I'll deal with it."

~*~

A while later Sanda and Sandor packed up what few belongings she had and brought them over to his cabin. This was not how Sansa had envisioned them starting a relationship—moving in quickly, being chased by a maniac, suddenly being together 24/7--but Sandor had helped her see reason.

Staying in her cabin alone might as well have been suicide. He was obviously not going to let her out of his sight, and his cabin was a bit larger. Plus he had years worth of belongings scattered around his cabin, while she had a few toiletries, her yarn, a few books and CDs, and her clothes. She had learned to travel light when she had realized Joffrey meant to get her back. Being able to shove her belongings into her car and run in a matter of minutes had become essential. 

As she carried an armful of clothes now to the dresser in the bedroom, she wondered if she would ever really get a chance to settle down, perhaps collect knickknacks or photos, or anything of which a normal person might acquire a large amount. 

Perhaps it was here, she thought with a small smile. Sandor had cleared out the whole left side of his waist-high dresser. Three drawers that she now neatly folded and put her clothes into. The drawers smelled of him—or rather, his clothes smelled of these dresser drawers. She put her socks, panties and bras in the top drawer and stood looking at them for a moment. It had been so long since she'd seen her clothes in a dresser instead of sorting through clothes to wear in a box, putting them back in a box after washing them and making sure her socks didn't get lost at the bottom. 

Truth be told, she really liked seeing them in a dresser now. 

As she smiled to herself, she heard Sandor clear his throat from the doorway. She turned quickly, smiling at him, embarrassed at being caught lost in thought. 

"Thank you again, Sandor, for giving me the dresser drawers for my things." She looked down at where her hand still rested on the edge of the open drawer, and she pushed it shut gently. Then she sighed, so many emotions rushing through her. 

When she was growing up she had a white dresser. Everything in her room had been white—the canopy bed, her walls, window trim, even the carpet had been white. She hadn't particularly cared for it, but now it seemed a symbol of things long past, things like her family, her childhood, the hopes and dreams she had when she was young and didn't know what the world was like. 

Determined not to dwell on such bittersweet memories, she looked up at Sandor again and smiled. He stood leaning against the door jam, arms crossed over his broad chest. He had changed into clean clothes, this time faded blue jeans with the beginnings of tears at the knees, and a well-worn faded black t-shirt. His head was slightly cocked to the side and he was watching her with a curious look on his face, as though her being in his bedroom was an anomaly he couldn't explain. 

His bearded face was solemn, though not sad, thankfully. She knew this expression was just him—not showing anger or happiness or anything in between or at the edges of emotions. She had come to love that face of his, and felt so lucky to have found it amidst her hardships. 

She went to him now, and as he dropped his arms she slid her hands around his waist and clasped her fists behind him, resting her cheek against his sternum. It took him a moment but his arms eventually came up to wrap around her, and she stood there with him in wonderful silence, just happy to feel his warmth, his strength, and his presence in her arms. 

She knew there were more things to talk about but for right now this was enough. It felt as though it would always be enough. 

While they ate lunch Sandor brought over his laptop and showed her the security camera and motion detector setup he had installed around their property and at the beginning and end of their driveway. She was surprised, but it slowly became apparent to her that he had cared enough about her to do this a while ago. 

"When did you do this?" she asked him now, sitting beside him at the table. She knew she should just be grateful but she was curious, and a little bit smug that he'd been protective of her for so long. 

But Sandor looked uncomfortable at the question. He sat up straight and sighed, then closed the laptop. He didn't look at her, only stayed silent while he allowed his hair to slowly make its way to the sides of his face, hiding even the unscarred side from her. She saw it for what it was, now easily recognizing his isolating move of hiding from the world. 

He didn't want to tell her, she realized, stunned and curious at the same time. 

"Sandor," she said softly, though he still didn’t look at her. She reached over and with a light touch, stroked his hair back and tucked it behind his ear. He glanced at her then but quickly looked away, pursing his mouth as though trapping the words inside. 

Sansa was becoming alarmed, though she knew not to be aggressive with searching for answers. So she asked one more time when he had bought the security system. She added in almost a whisper, "You can tell me," as she sat back, ready to let the matter drop. 

His chest expanded and fell with a deep sigh that he let out his nose. He clenched his fists on top of his thighs. Then he closed his eyes and said hesitantly, "The day you saw the painting." 

Sansa didn't say anything. She sat staring at his face, part of her mind busy trying to fight away the remembered feelings of that day, while the other part sorted through his reaction to her initial question. 

She closed her eyes and willed her mind to calm. In the events of the last twenty-four hours she had forgotten about the painting, which was silly because now she was to reside in the same cabin; even now sat in the same room as the painting. Her eyes darted over to the pile of canvases leaning against the wall under the window. She swallowed, trying with all her might to ignore the feelings of shame and embarrassment that went with the day she'd found out he knew of her scars. 

That day had been horrendous, and she had run from him. She had run from him and kept him waiting for what—two days? Three? She didn't even know. They had passed in a blur until she'd made the decision to actually pack and leave. 

She didn't want to remember his reaction that day—the panic she'd seen on his face, the way he had followed her but had been unable to touch her. She thought now, if he had—if he'd reached out and made contact-- she likely would have crumbled. He wouldn't have had to even say any words, and she would have stayed. 

But he was like a scared animal that day, and as that realization washed over her she suddenly realized why he hadn't wanted to tell her, now, when he had ordered the cameras. He didn't want to remind of her that day, of the events that had led to her leaving their property—leaving him. 

She looked back at him, stunned. "Sandor," she said, her voice higher than it needed to be. But he wouldn't look at her. He remained stoic, staring ahead at nothing. Sansa didn't know if she should feel panic or sadness or heartbreak, but at that moment she thought she likely felt all three. "Sandor," she said again louder, and she reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched. 

He wasn't looking at her because he thought if he reminded her of that day, she might leave him again. 

There was nothing else she could do—she stood up and swung a leg over his lap and wrapped her body around his, sitting on his lap and straddling him. His arms came out from between their bodies and she couldn't see his face as she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and buried her face into the scarred skin. She felt his shocked reaction in the tense muscles all over his body, how his arms remained suspended in air, not touching anything. 

"I'm not going anywhere, Sandor," she nearly cried, her heart breaking for this broken, proud man. Tears fell from her eyes onto his skin and still she held on, showing him with her body what he likely wouldn't believe with just words. "I'm not leaving," she whispered, then, "I swear it—I'm not." And as more tears fell she felt his arms go around her, and he held her to him with an incredibly strong grip. She felt him turn his face into her hair as a tremor shook his body. 

Sansa cried then—for him, for her, for their shared suffering, their common injustice. She cried for the little boy who had so much taken from him, and she cried for the girl she was when the violence started in her life, as her family and freedom were both taken from her. 

It was a long while before her tears stopped and she loosened her grip on Sandor's neck. His arms slid down to encircle her hips but he didn't completely let go. When she pulled back she kept her hands at the back of his neck, playing and tugging at the ends of his hair the way he liked. 

Her face was still close to his but she didn't want to kiss him. She wanted him to look at her, as he was doing now. Again he took a deep breath and sighed, and she shook her head with a shaky smile. 

"It will take more than a painting to drive me off now, Sandor," she said, and his one eyebrow lifted, as though he were saying, "Oh?" 

Sansa nodded, still smiling. "I'm staying," and to show him she leaned forward the barest amount, but enough to press her lips gently against his, moving them side to side until she felt his lips part. Then she kissed him lovingly, sliding her fingers into his hair gently. He was hers, and he needed to feel that, just as she knew she was his. 

"Sandor," she breathed as she broke the kiss. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his. "I want to see the painting again." 

She had expected him to tense up again and he didn't disappoint. So she kissed him again, the corner of his mouth this time, and then on his cheek just above his beard, and at the edge of his scar under his eye. "I want you to show it to me," she whispered against his skin, planting kisses across his forehead while stroking his hair away from his face. He let his forehead fall against her shoulder and she pressed a kiss to his temple. With his hair back she had exposed his neck and she stroked it now, tracing the edge of his ear with her fingertip and then over the skin behind it to the nape of his neck. 

"Please," she whispered at his temple, and this time she felt him give a small nod. 

But before she could get off his lap, he brought his face close to hers to capture her lips in a kiss, a soft, reassuring kiss, though she was sure he was reassuring himself. 

This man—her big man, her handsome woodsman—was afraid, though he had no need to be. But only she knew that. So she took his hand and pulled him up with her, and he held onto her as he walked to the stack of paintings against the wall and pulled out the one of her in her bikini.

~*~

Sandor was nervous, even scared if he bothered to admit that to himself. The last time he'd brought out this painting he had suffered heartbreak like he had never known before.

Sansa had said this time would be different, so with one last sigh he slid the painting out from behind the one in front of it, and held it up one-handed. There was nothing that would convince him to let go of her hand. 

If she ran, which she had promised she wouldn't, he would beg. He would fall to his knees and beg her, he was sure of it. He would beg her to stay, and there would be no limit to his words if he hurt her again. 

But as her eyes fell to the painting she remained where she was, and he even thought he felt a nearly imperceptible tightening of her grip on his hand. He stared at her face, gauging her reaction. He thought she schooled her expression, but eventually as she studied it, a small smile appeared on her lips, the barest of raising at the corners, and he allowed himself to feel hope. 

"Is that how you see me?" she asked him suddenly, bringing him out of his reverie. He hadn't expected to actually talk about the painting, and found now that he hadn't ever put into words how he felt about her scars. But the painting was an explanation in itself, so he nodded, looking over her curves in the painting. "Rainbows of color?" She was asking, and again he nodded. He looked at her, then back to the painting and gave a little shrug. He couldn't explain it, really. But yes, her scars were rainbows. 

She let go of his hand, only to slide an arm around his waist. Sandor was still trying to get used to her spontaneous touches but he knew she liked it, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. 

"It's a beautiful painting, Sandor," said Sansa. Sandor let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. She looked up at him and smiled brilliantly. "Just don't show anyone." That was said with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous smile, and he returned a small smile. 

The remainder of their day was quite mundane, with Sandor working on a painting and Sansa sitting in front of a window attempting to crochet... something. He still had the hat and scarf she'd made for him, though the scarf reminded him of the day he almost lost her. He'd nearly cried when he found the scarf inside her cabin after she left that day, and he'd held it to his face and smelled her on it. 

Now they sat on the shelf above his small coat rack, waiting to be used, and Sansa sat working on another project with her brows furrowed. Every so often he watched her count, pull out a couple rows and restart from there. She looked frustrated but also bound and determined to not give up. 

Having her here in the cabin was surreal. He was aware that the circumstances weren't normal, and that the only reason she had agreed to live with him was so that they could monitor the security system and that he could protect her. He hadn't heard any more from Bill about the guy who was asking around town so he decided later he'd call and ask. 

But still, the scene they presented must have looked incredibly domestic. That they were in the same room not talking, but both absorbed in their own hobby, made him want to sit and ponder, to stare at her and wonder how he had ever managed to deserve such a woman. 

She was beautiful, her red hair glistening with gold streaks in the sun, and her pale skin looking so delicate and soft in the light of the window. Her mouth was open slightly and her lower lip was round and smooth, and ever so often she would draw it into her mouth under her teeth. He thought she did that when she was on a roll and not stopping to make corrections, and it was a sexy look on her. 

That was another thing—she was so damn sexy. It didn't matter what she wore, how she had her hair done up, or if she had dirt smudges on her face and hands from gardening. It was likely that she could have taken a mud bath and he would still become aroused at the sight of her. 

Not only that, but he found himself feeling aroused when she looked at him, smiled at him, made him a meal or did something nice. He was turned on literally by everything about her, and sometimes that scared him. On top of feeling awkward at casual touches, he was worried that she would find the evidence of his arousal at inopportune times. He shook his head at the thought and turned back to his painting.

I’m like a green boy, he thought. Like a boy with his first girlfriend. 

And was that really what this was? It had escalated slowly, and then they had reached a climax—literally—so fast. And now they were living together. They had spoken all the right words, that he needed her and she needed him, and that they loved each other. But is this what she really wanted? Living in the same cabin with him? If their problem was ever resolved—though God knows how that would happen—would she want to return to her cabin? 

And what were the sleeping arrangements going to be tonight? Would they both automatically go for the bed? Would sex be the natural result of this new living arrangement? 

He immediately knew that was not the case. There was the possibility that at any moment she could dwell on how she got here and she could become sad or worried that she was being chased after like a wounded animal. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her or to make her feel that he was taking advantage of her. He looked at her again now and saw that she was also staring out the window, lost in her thoughts. But then she turned back into the room as though sensing his eyes on her, and she smiled sweetly at him before resuming her crocheting.

~*~

Sansa sat on the shore with Sandor that night, his phone between them with an alarm on it if anything happened at the top of their mile-long driveway. She felt fairly secure, and she was aware that Sandor would likely protect her with his own life if it came down to that. She hoped it wouldn't, and was still scared that she had dragged him into her mess.

When they finished their coffees they returned to his cabin and Sandor let her use the bathroom first to get ready for bed. But when she came out she saw that he had put a pillow and a blanket on the couch and was sitting on the edge, his arms on his knees and his hands clasped between them. Sansa wondered if he meant for her to sleep there and was suddenly incredibly unsure of herself. 

She hadn't known what to think about their sleeping arrangements and just hadn't thought on it much during the day. Did she want a repeat of what happened last night? 

Well, yes, of course, she thought, blushing now. But how did they get there? Sandor apparently meant for one of them to take the couch. 

As she stood there he looked up at her, and the expression on his face appeared torn, conflicted. She realized he'd already decided as he said, "I'll take the couch," and he sat, looking at her. It caught her off guard, that he had made that type of decision without talking to her, or asking her what she wanted. 

"Oh," was her confused reply. Was it possible that he didn't want her? No, she knew that idea was silly. She knew he wanted her, had responded so boldly and intensely to her the night before. And she also knew that he loved her. But it was her love for him that convinced her to mumble, "Okay," before turning and walking into the bedroom. She didn't know what would convince him that sleeping apart was for the best, but she knew he wasn't the type to argue with. 

As she settled down into his bed on his pillow with his blanket covering her, and she was surrounded by his scent, she felt somewhat comforted that everything he did, he did for her. Somehow he felt that sleeping on the couch, she knew, would help her. Perhaps he didn't want to rush her into a physical relationship too fast, or that he was nervous about starting one in the first place

She didn't know, and chose not to dwell on it. As with all things between them, that would come with time. She knew it would happen in its own time, and rushing it likely might ruin it. So she snuggled down into the pillow and inhaled deeply as Sandor turned off the light in the living room. 

Later in Sansa's dream she was walking through her old home. It looked like her—same paintings on the wall, same marble tile floors, she could recognize the stair bannister her brothers used to slide down, the kitchen she used to go into late at night to get a drink, the dining room where they had been served by their cook for their meals, and the back yard where she'd had so many birthday parties and family gatherings. 

But everything was blue, all shades of blue now. The lights were blue, the shadows were blue, and there was a thin blue mist covering everything. As she walked up the wide staircase to the second floor landing she could see the shadows upstairs were growing. It was an ominous sight but she was powerless to stop her feet. 

Then as she reached the top floor and turned right to go to her bedroom, suddenly it was no longer her home but Joffrey's, the family home that had been passed down through his family for generations. The blue shadows were now turning red and everything around her was shades of red. And she was scared, so scared, at what she might find if she kept walking. 

But walk she did, until she reached the end of the hallway and a closed red door with a red doorknob. As she reached out she could hear voices behind the door, muffled and unintelligible. Alarmed, she saw blood on her hand as she grasped the doorknob and opened it. 

The voices were now loud enough for her to hear—her own voice from the corner of the room almost loud enough to drown out Joffrey's yelling. 

Sansa remembered the scene well, and she cringed at the sight. She could see herself standing in the corner, her torn nightgown being held together by her own hands. And she was bleeding, trails of blood weaving their ways through the fine hairs on her arms. That was the night Joffrey had taken a belt to her upper arms, and she felt tears on her cheeks as she watched. His face was so clear, she could see it so clearly now and she wanted to turn and run but she couldn't—she was rooted to the spot, being held there by bloody hands coming through the floor with vice grips on her ankles and feet. She couldn't have run even if she'd wanted to. 

Joffrey's face contorted into a mask of rage as he swung the long leather belt again, whipping the other Sansa's arm again as she screamed in pain. 

"Why?!" the girl cried, as Sansa watched the pain and fear on her face. "Why are you doing this, Joffrey?!" 

But he just yelled again, hollering as he brought the belt down again and again, his pale face turning red and his blonde hair plastered to his head with sweat. He didn't answer her, but as Sansa watched herself in the corner, cowering and being beaten, she cried out, aching to go to her. She reached, and suddenly the Sansa in the corner appeared to become aware that there was someone there. Her eyes darted between Joffrey and Sansa, her arms bleeding and in pain. 

She reached for Sansa, but Sansa's feet were still pinned, held to the floor by hands that were turning into arms, raising from the floor to grab at her calves, her knees, her thighs. She felt herself sinking into the floor and still she reached towards the Sansa in the corner. As that Sansa cried out to her, "Why? Why?!" Sansa screamed, the hands dragging at her waist as she sunk deeper and deeper into the floor. 

Then the Joffrey in her dream turned to her and looked down at her where she was now chest-deep in a sea of bloody hands. His evil, gleaming eyes shone and he shota heinous smile at her and began to laugh. Sansa screamed as she felt the hands now on her neck, in her hair, and she would have pried them away if her arms hadn't already been underneath the floor, pinned at her sides. 

"No, no!" she cried, as hands covered her face and darkness overtook her. The last thing she saw was the belt coming down, towards her this time, and she screamed. 

"Sansa!" Sandor's voice broke through the fog. It was lifting, though Sansa was still crying. The red haze began to dissipate as she came out of her dream, and she realized she was struggling against Sandor's hands on her arms. She stilled, and at the same instant he loosened her grip she brought her hands up to her face and wept. 

"Sansa," he growled again, and she felt his hands scoop her up from the bed and bring her to his lap. There he cradled her as she cried, her hands still over her face. She tried to wipe out the memories of Joffrey's maniacal laughter, and the blood-thirsty look on his face as he had begun to torture her once she'd been of no use to him. A shudder of disgust wracked her body and she wept anew, wondering if she would ever have peace from her dreams. 

Sandor held her against his bare chest, his cheek resting against the top of her head and one hand rubbing her leg from ankle to knee as he rocked her. Lord, he was rocking her, and that realization helped her to calm herself. Her crying quieted and she wrapped her arm around his neck, burying her face into the smooth skin of his neck. He smelled just like his pillows—of man and soap, such a soothing scent. It was pure Sandor, and she could have sat there forever with her nose in his neck. 

But then Sandor stilled his rocking and his stroking, and asked, "Are you okay?" 

Sansa stayed where she was, unmoving. She felt that if she pulled away he would as well, and she wasn't ready for that. So she took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "Yes," against his skin. But she didn't want him to put her down, didn't want him to go back out to the couch. She wanted him here in the bed, not to make love but to hold her, for her to feel his strong presence beside her. She didn't let go of him, but drew her comfort and strength from his embrace. 

"Sandor?" She said quietly against his neck. She felt his body tense and she sighed softly. 

"Yes?" He answered. 

"Could we please sleep together? I mean, not to do anything, I don't expect that--" she stammered, knowing how she sounded. "I just don't want to be alone," she finished, and she sat up, pulling away from his neck to look in his face. 

He was looking at her in the dim summer night moonlight, lips pursed and studying her in that now-familiar look of his. After a moment he nodded, and his hand hesitantly came up to brush her hair away from her face. It was so sweet. She leaned forward to kiss him softly but quickly got off his lap and climbed back into bed. She was nervous, unsure of how he was going to handle this. The previous night she felt as though they had hardly slept a wink, but tonight she just wanted to be held. Would this work out? 

She purposefully laid down with her back to him, and as if on cue he sunk down onto the bed behind her. It felt good when he moved close to her and pulled her back against him, as though his mind was the nervous part but his body knew what to do when faced with intimacy. And perhaps she had the right of it, she thought—that the only barrier to him accepting her intimate touches was his long-held belief that he needed to reject physical contact. She would have to work on that, she decided as she laid her hand on top of his on the bed in front of her and slid her fingers down into his. She felt his face come forward into her hair and he stilled, his thighs pressed against the backs of hers. 

She stayed quiet for a moment, but was now too awake to fall asleep right away, and too aware of his presence to be completely relaxed. It felt so good to be pressed up against him like this, with his body wrapped around hers. His head was level with hers but her feet were pressed up against the middle of his lower legs, emphasizing their size difference. She felt safe and protected in his embrace. 

"Sandor?" she whispered, and she smiled at his grunted response. "I like this," she said, rubbing the back of his hand. She pulled it closer to her face and kissed it softly, then rested her cheek against it. 

"And thank you," she said. "For waking me." 

In response he pulled his elbow in tighter against her stomach and she felt his sigh in her hair. Then just so he would know, she whispered, "I love you," and she closed her eyes, not expecting a reply. 

But just as sleep was overtaking her and she drifted off with a smile on her face, she heard his growling reply, raspy in her hair behind her, "I love you, too, Sansa."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking...
> 
> "IT'S ABOUT DAMNED TIME YOU UPDATED!!"
> 
> And I agree. Completely. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy <3 I'm going to try to finish this one soon. These two need some down time together ;-)

Sandor woke up pressed against Sansa's side, one arm slung over her stomach and one of his legs pinning both of hers. Her small, dainty hand rested on his forearm. Her face was turned towards him, her mouth parted in sleep. 

When he opened his eyes to the morning sun and saw her up close, Sansa was breathtaking. Her skin was pale and smooth, her lips a pretty coral pink and her eyelashes a darker version of her red hair color. She looked peaceful, asleep under his limbs. He closed his eyes to savor the feel of her—the warmth of her body under his arm, the feel of her legs under his, and how he had never felt so comfortable in his bed as he did just then. He rose up on his elbow, feeling the need to look down at her beauty. 

She was perfect. And she loved him, and he loved her. It was almost enough to make him forget the future they faced. 

Sansa inhaled deeply then and arched her back, stretching as sleep left her. Her legs curled slightly and she brought her arms up as if to stretch them above her head, but then her eyes opened, she saw him, and with a radiant smile they went around his neck instead. 

"Sandor," she breathed happily, pulling him down so that his head rested on her shoulder and she was hugging him to her. She sighed again, a sleepy, "Mmmm," into his hair as her finger tips started tracing lines up and down his back. He didn't have a chance to feel awkward at her touches because he was instantly aroused at the feel of her hands on his body. 

He growled her name and pulled back, but she'd already sensed the effect she'd had on him, as her eyes darted down and back up to his face, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. 

"Good morning," she whispered with a beautiful smile. 

Sandor grunted, but then thought better and smiled down at her, his, "Good morning," coming out in a raspy voice. 

Sansa's hand came up to brush back his hair, though there wasn't enough ear to hold it back on that side so she held it instead, bringing her other hand up to touch his face. She stroked his brow and down his temple to his beard-covered cheek. She ran her fingers over the width of his lower lip and her smile disappeared, and when she brought her gaze up to meet his again he saw desire in her eyes that mirrored his own. 

He lowered his face slowly, haltingly, until her eyes closed and she breathed a sigh against his lips. In response he pressed them against hers, and they shared a soft, loving kiss. 

Sandor couldn't keep his hands still. He broke the kiss to watch his own hand slide up her side and up to her shoulder, where he hooked the thin strap of her nightgown and pulled it down slowly, just enough to expose the top curve of her breast. He lowered his head to that spot, kissing the soft skin and leaving a trail of kisses over her exposed flesh, alternating between softly kissing scars and skin as he moved to the base of her neck. 

Sansa turned her head to give him better access, and he felt her hips arch against him as her hands became more insistent with their stroking of his back. But he didn't want to go fast right now—he wanted to love her, to love her body. 

So he moved his kisses downward, over her sternum and to the silky skin between her breasts. He nuzzled his nose there and kissed, licking and tasting the sweet skin as her hands went into his hair. The sensation of her holding him to her chest, and of having her warm, pliant body beneath his, was almost surreal. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine five months ago that when he'd spotted this woman on the shore of the lake, that she would one day let him do this to her, would let him love her and love him back. 

That thought was the most arousing thing he could ever conjure in his mind, but he held it back as he nuzzled her nightgown out of the way to take one precious peak into his mouth. Sansa arched her back then, her grip on his hair tightening as he loved her nipple with his tongue and teeth. Then he moved to the other side, pulling the nightgown down as he went so it pooled at her waist. 

As he tasted her his hand travelled down, running the length of her thigh before coming back up between them. He gently stroked the skin of her inner thighs, alternating between legs as he slowly moved higher and higher, until he encountered the fabric of her panties. 

He palmed her core and could feel her wetness against his hand, and it made him growl against her skin. There was something about her, something about their union, that made him feel animalistic in his possessiveness of her. No one had ever made him feel this way, no one had ever aroused him or had been aroused by him, like Sansa. There would be no one else—there would only ever be Sansa. 

He pushed on her with the heel of his hand, rubbing at her sensitive core as she whimpered above him. Over and over, he rubbed in small circles until her breathing quickened and she was pulling his head up by his hair, her mouth searching for his. And just as their lips met in a sensual kiss she shattered beneath him, crying out as he drew her lower lip in between his own. He slowed the movement of his hand but drew out her climax, the tremors in her body slowly dissipating. 

She looked up at him, eyes glazed with desire, and his name came upon her lips like a plea, "Sandor." In no time he'd divested himself of the sweatpants he'd slept in, and her of her nightgown and panties until they were naked, pressed against each other once again kissing passionately. 

Sandor's hair fell around their faces as he moved above her without breaking the kiss. As if it were routine, her arms clasped him around the chest, her legs hooked the backs of his thighs, and as though they were made for each other he slid home, bringing them to full joining with one swift movement. Sansa threw her head back, mouth open and eyes closed at the erotic intrusion, and Sandor took the opportunity to lean down and latch onto the soft skin at the side of her neck, pulling out of her body and thrusting back as he pulled at her flesh with his mouth, hard enough to mark her. 

He kept his rhythm slow and her face eventually fell, her eyes connecting with his as he moved above her. In her expression he saw desire, yes, but also love and acceptance. It fueled his impulse to claim her, to make her his, but he held back, wanting instead for her to be completely fulfilled before he sought his own release. 

And she didn't disappoint—when he felt her body clenching around his as she peaked, and her hands came up to clasp the back of his neck, she pulled his mouth down to his and he was lost. His climax hit him like a brick wall, despite the slowness of their lovemaking. He had never known releases to be so powerful, but Sansa had a way of turning him on to the point of insanity. 

He slowed his moving and then stopped, pulling away and then laying on his side to pull her against him. Sansa nestled her face against his chest, her hands clasped between them as he held her in his arms. Then one of her arms slid around his side to clasp the back of his shoulder and she nuzzled at his chest, a soft sigh whispering through the hairs on his chest. 

A murmur of doubt ran through his mind as he remembered her words of the night before—that she hadn't expected to do anything while they were in bed. He wondered then if what they had just done—that beautiful lovemaking that blew his mind—was unwanted by her. 

But no, she'd said she hadn't expected it. She did not say she didn't WANT it... Right? He closed his eyes and swallowed, irritated that he seemed to be constantly analyzing her and her emotions. Would he ever understand her? 

Again, no--he knew she'd enjoyed it. She was so close to him now, as close as two people could be, and every once in awhile he would feel her lips press to his chest in soft kisses. 

He wasn't sure what possessed him to, but he spoke then. The moment for lovemaking was over, and the time to make deeper connections, he felt, was upon them. 

"Tell me about your family."

~*~

Sansa froze. Five little words, and she was suddenly back in Florida, a little girl playing on the large back lawn of her family home.

Whatever had possessed Sandor to ask such a question?! But even as she asked herself that, she recognized something profound about the moment that, try as she might, she could not ignore—he was creating a conversation. 

Well, he wasn't committing himself to talking, but he was initiating conversation that was meaningful. He was asking her about something that he knew would be incredibly painful to her, but he was doing it at a time when he must have known—must have, she assured herself—that there was no safer place for her to be when she told him. 

And it likely would only have been a matter of time—weeks, months, perhaps even years—until she told him about her family. As much as this seemed an odd time to do it, he was asking and she was going to answer, no matter how hard it was. 

So she relaxed her body, absent-mindedly ran her fingertips softly over the skin of his shoulder, and began speaking into his warm chest, her own squeezing painfully at the memories. 

"I grew up with four brothers and a sister, and my mom and dad." She smiled, remembering all of their family photos lining the walls of their home. They had seemed to be everywhere—the library, her father's office, the front parlour. The largest had been in the dining room. 

"My oldest brother Robb was expected to carry on with the family business when my father died. My next brother, John, was my half-brother, or so that's what my father said. He showed up with John before I was born and told my mom John was his son and that they were going to take care of him from then on. My mom never truly forgave him for that, and she never really forgave John, either. But he was my brother." 

She almost added that she missed him, but she might have cried. 

"Then there was Bran and Rickon, who ran my mother ragged. Between them was my sister Arya, who sometimes seemed to be the fifth boy in the family. She loved to play with them, and hated that I only ever wanted to do ladylike things with mother. We did not get along, at all." 

Sansa drew a ragged breath and squeezed her eyes shut. No, they hadn't gotten along. But if only she could see them one more time, things would be different. She would be different, she vowed. 

"I thought I was in love with Joffrey so when it was proposed that we get married and he seemed excited at the prospect, I was too. I was just a child, but it didn't matter. Our families hadn't gotten along in a long time and I suppose we thought this would mend the rift between them. 

"But then Joffrey's father died and his mother seemed to decide that a truce would not be best for her family. By then I knew Joffrey wasn't everything he had appeared to be, and he had already started to verbally abuse me. I held out hope that as long as I married him, things would ease between the families. 

"My father called a meeting at the Baratheon estate. He came alone." Sansa took another deep, ragged breath. This still hurt, so terribly, but she hadn't realized that after five months in this sanctuary in the forest, perhaps a bit of healing had occurred when she wasn't looking. Still, what came next was hard for her to say, and she felt tears pool in her eyes. 

"We were all in the library, and Joffrey's mother, Cersei, had just ordered tea to be served. I'd sat on the couch next to my father and I remember the way Joffrey looked at me then—as if I were no more than a dog to him. He actually sneered at me, when my father wasn't looking. 

"The tea was served and my father started to speak about how there was no need for animosity between our families. But Cersei looked as though she had been tired of the conversation even before it had started. She let my father go on about how noble our houses were, how the Baratheon lineage was centuries old and worth being proud of. And he addressed Joffrey—said that Joffrey was one in a long line of upstanding businessmen, and that his father would have been proud to see Joffrey as the young man he was. 

"Then I saw Cersei nod at a man standing to the side of the room and he walked over to where she was sitting opposite us, and he turned and drew a gun out of his jacket, and he—he..." 

Tears slid out of Sansa's eyes then, and Sandor's grip on her tightened. He didn't interrupt her, tell her she didn't need to go on nor urge her to say more. He just held her while she took a moment to relive that horrible moment in her life in her mind. 

"He pointed the gun at my father and just pulled the trigger. I didn't have time to react, didn't have time to even tell him no, to not do that. There was no emotion on their faces—Cersei or this man who shot my dad. Except Joffrey—I remember his smile as he watched the man walk up from the side of the room." She sniffed and pressed her forehead against Sandor's warm chest. She could hear his breathing, could feel the strong beat of his heart in his chest. He reminded her with his presence that she was alive and healthy, and that she was strong. 

"My dad just fell back against the couch. I don't even know how long he lived—I was leaning over him and he was staring up at me. When Joffrey pulled me off him his eyes were still--…" Sansa swallowed, remembering. She felt queasy. "His eyes were still staring at the ceiling. And I was screaming, just screaming, and I couldn't stop. I tried to get back to him but Joffrey had a man holding me and I couldn't break free. And that was the first time Joffrey hurt me—he pulled his fist back and punched me in the face." 

Sansa paused, feeling the sadness wash away as anger and disgust replaced them. She was sickened by Joffrey as a person, knew that he was less man now than he was monster. She hated being on the run from him. 

"When I woke up I was in my room in their mansion, but it was bare. They had taken almost everything, except the barest furniture. I was in that room when I learned they had killed my mom and Robb, when I found out that John was in a secret military unit and Joffrey couldn't find him, and that Arya had run away. Joffrey told me he'd killed Bran and Rickon, but something about how he said it made me wonder if he was lying, and I don't know if I'll ever really know. 

"But I stayed there, in that room for five years, being brought out to be paraded in front of their friends, playing the part of perfect fiancée for fear Joffrey would beat me, or have one of his men beat me, after whatever event it was that we'd attended. He would beat me for no reason, as well." 

She snorted, disgusted with the memories she was seeing in her mind. 

"One time I did my hair a way he didn't like. He came tearing at me, screaming that I was worthless and a piece of trash. He pulled my hair out in clumps before his mother sent someone in to warn him away from permanently disfiguring me. She'd always said not to touch my face, and Joffrey stuck to that. Like a mantra," she added with a shudder. 

She felt Sandor's hand slowly rub her back, his fingers running over the bumps and pits of scars dotting her back. She felt nothing but love in his touch, though, and was comforted by it. 

"The worst was when he had one of his mom's bodyguards burn me. He liked to watch, and it hurt—it hurt so bad." Again, she took a deep shuddering breath, squeezing her legs at the memories of how she got the scars she now had there. She hated cigarettes, and knew she'd likely be happy if she never saw another one for the rest of her life. 

"I managed to escape one night. It was Joffrey's birthday and I'd said I needed to use the restroom. It had been years of abuse, by then, and they thought I was a coward and that they didn't have to follow me every second. Everyone was so drunk that I knew I'd have a bit of extra time before they realized I was gone. So I walked out of the room and ran out the back door and have never looked back. There have been times where I thought I was safe and I'd see them—Joffrey and a bodyguard—sniffing around whatever town I happened to be in. So I would pick up my things and put them in my car, and I would run some more. That must have happened fifteen times or so, before I decided to head north to Alaska." 

Back to a happier story, she smiled then and kissed Sandor's chest. "That's when I met you, and that's my story." She sighed heavily, knowing it was a heavy tale to impart on anyone. But Sandor loved her, and he had wanted to hear it. He was the one person in the world that she could trust, and she was indeed entrusting to him a piece of her heart, in telling him about her family. 

So it didn't feel like as huge a deal as it might have before, when she pulled away and looked up at him, smiling gently. "Whenever you're ready, big man," she whispered, and she scooted up on the bed to lovingly kiss his lips.

~*~

Sandor did not talk for a long time. In fact, he was silent for so long that Sansa got out of bed, apparently satisfied that perhaps he would just tell her in his own time.

After all that she had shared with him—her heartbreak, her loss of family, her abuse by the Baratheons—he wanted her to know his story. And he knew he could do it, though it would be hard. There wasn't much to tell, but it would be more than he had said to a single person in one sitting than before he'd been burned, probably. 

She was worth it, though. He'd watched her walk away from him, wrapped in the sheet she'd stolen from the bed, and she had sent him back a smile that spoke of love and hope. He would tell her his story, but in his own time. Immediately following her’s didn't seem like the right moment. 

He listened to her hum in the shower, the same slow, lilting tune she'd hummed off and on during her time here in the woods. Though this time it was the same tune but more upbeat, hummed in a faster tempo, but still a haunting melody. 

Sandor donned his sweatpants again and went to check his phone, which had not alerted him to any alarms going off during the night. He reviewed the computer records as Sansa showered, just to be sure, but found nothing. It was good, but it also meant the threat was still out there somewhere, lurking. He'd called Bill but there was no more sign of the strange man in town. Sandor didn't want to think about what that might mean—was he hiding out in the woods? Had he left to get reinforcements? Could they hope that he'd found nothing and left? 

But no, Sandor knew it couldn't be that. A man with as much hatred for Sansa as what Joffrey Baratheon harbored in his heart wouldn't just give up the search like that. And as there weren't too many people with hair like Sansa's, Sandor was sure the man looking had found her scent. 

Sansa walked out of the bathroom then, this time wrapped in a large bath towel that on him was rather small. On her, it reached almost to her knees. But when her blue eyes landed on him she blushed like a maiden and scooted into the bedroom to close the door. 

Sandor snorted his amusement. After everything they'd done together, she was still bashful. Though he also couldn't really blame her—he felt as much a blushing schoolgirl as she. When HE thought of the things they'd done he was still nearly overcome with emotion. Again—AGAIN—how had his life turned out so beautifully? 

It was as though she was making his paintings come to life. His paintings, which were a representation of how he wished things to be—beautiful, stunning views, no true darkness or shadows. Sansa had brought the light into his life again, and she made his color wheel spin on its axis, shooting out colors and emotions he had either long buried or never felt before. 

When she emerged from the bedroom a short time later, wearing her tank top and short shorts, he almost forgot he'd been about to surprise her with breakfast. She was gorgeous, and he found himself staring at her curves, her smooth legs, her bare feet, and back up to her hesitant face, those perfect lips of hers and her beautiful blue eyes. She had dried her hair and it hung sleek and straight over one shoulder. 

Pan of oatmeal forgotten, Sandor gathered up his courage and walked over to her, pleased when her hands came up to rest on his chest before they slid up and around his shoulders, over his collarbones to go behind his neck. At the same time he slid his hands to her waist and around her back, pulling her into him as she hugged herself to his chest. 

"How did this happen, Sandor?" she asked, her face pressed to the base of his neck. 

Sandor huffed, as close to a laugh as he'd ever give. He didn’t know, but like her, he found himself questioning it often. So he just held her tighter, and she laughed gaily when he clasped his arms behind her and stood tall, lifting her feet off the floor. Then he just held her there for a moment, feeling the weight of her in his arms before lowering her down. She pulled back and looked at him, a wide smile on her lips. 

He would have kissed them if he hadn't remembered the oatmeal on the stove. 

The time to tell his story came after they had sat at his small dining table for a while eating the sweet oatmeal and fresh fruit he'd prepared for breakfast. Sansa had indeed been surprised, but Sandor had happily noted she was also been pleased with his efforts. 

Sansa returned to her seat at the table after clearing their dishes, looking gorgeous in the morning sunlight shining through the window. Her hair gleamed with gold in the sun, a stark contrast against her pale skin. He figured she was going to start talking about what they might do that day, so he cleared his throat and clasped his hands on the table in front of him. Sansa's smile left her face and she looked at him expectantly. 

Sandor opened his mouth to talk, but then closed it again. He sighed, looked out the window, and then back down at his hands. It wasn't a hard story to tell, nor was it particularly long. But it wasn't something he often re-lived, and he realized that even now, after all this time, it was still painful. 

When he spoke his voice was low and raspy, sounding foreign even to himself. 

"My brother did this to me," he began. He knew he'd shock her but her gasp brought his eyes up to hers. He lowered them quickly at the hurt expression on her face. It was an unpleasant story and part of him didn't want to tell her because he wanted to shield her from the horror of it all. But she needed to know, and he was going to share this part of himself with her because she had done the same with him. 

"I had taken his toy." Sandor could remember the day clearly in his mind—could picture Gregor's mean scowl when he'd found the six-year-old Sandor playing with his plastic helicopter. Sandor had loved that toy, and often wished he owned one himself. But it was Gregor who received it for Christmas, not him. 

What Gregor didn't know was that Sandor often played with it when Gregor wasn't around, and this time it just so happened that when Gregor had left to go riding bikes with his friend, he'd forgotten his pocketknife in his bedroom. 

That's where Sandor was, sitting on the floor with the beloved helicopter in his hands, when Gregor walked in. Sandor could remember the fear in him when he'd seen Gregor's face. Their dad was working, their mom already dead by then, and there was no one to help him, no one to run to. 

"What the fuck are you doing with my helicopter?" 14-year-old Gregor had screamed. He stormed into the room and snatched the helicopter out of Sandor's hands. "What the fuck!" he exclaimed, flinging the toy onto his bed. 

"What the hell are you doing, Sandor? Stupid piece of shit," he'd said coldly, advancing on the much-smaller Sandor where he sat on the floor. "I'll teach you to touch my stuff!" 

Sandor had squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to curl himself up into a ball. At six years old, Sandor had still been small, but at fourteen Gregor was the size of a man, already stronger than most men as well. 

Sandor looked up at Sansa now, his face a cool mask without emotion. "He dragged me by my arm," he said, and Sansa's hand went up to cover her mouth. Tears filled her eyes as he continued, "Out to the hall... to the living room... and dropped me in front of the fireplace." 

At the time Sandor had thought this was where Gregor was going to beat him. But then Gregor spoke in a quiet anger that Sandor had never heard before, the words the same as when their father punished Gregor for something. 

"You're gonna learn, boy." 

Then Gregor's six-and-a-half-foot, two-hundred and fifty pound body reached down, grabbed a handful of Sandor's shirt and a fist full of Sandor's hair. 

He could remember the terror, the not knowing what was going to happen until his body was dragged forward towards the fireplace. It was then that he'd started screaming, but no one was home to help him. He felt the heat from the coals for what felt like an eternity before Gregor actually pushed his face down into them. 

The doctors later said he'd scorched his airways from breathing in hot ash, his great gulping screams causing him to inhale the burning cinders. 

"He held my face in the coals for not more than ten seconds," Sandor told Sansa, pausing to swallow the bile that rose in his throat past the lump that had formed there. "My father told the doctor I'd been playing with matches." 

Sansa's eyes widened in horror at what he was implying. And he agreed: it was horrifying. He knew that now, but as a child he'd been forced to accept that his father favored Gregor. It wasn't until much later that Sandor suspected his father had also been afraid of Gregor. 

"Oh, no, Sandor," Sansa gasped, but she didn't move. Tears fell over her cheeks but she just stared at him. Sandor wasn't sure if he was done talking. 

He took a moment to stare out the window and to compose himself. He hadn't lasted long in that house—their father had had an accident, had died, and Gregor and Sandor had been split up and carted off to the foster system. The recovery from the accident had been agony, though they'd saved his eye and much of his hearing in his right ear. Physical therapy had made it so that his range of movement in his shoulder was pretty decent, and as soon as he'd turned 18 he had left the foster parents who had tolerated him living in their house. He had never looked back. 

He didn't know where Gregor was now, nor did he care to. And as he looked over at Sansa—quiet, beautiful Sansa who was crying for the pain he'd endured as a little boy—he felt whole, like the person he was now had finally been fully accepted by someone. It was a freeing thought, and though he'd just told the story of the worst thing that had ever happened to him, he was happy. 

Sansa, on the other hand, was a mess. 

"I'm okay, Sansa," Sandor reassured her, but she shook her head, hand still covering her mouth. She was crying in earnest, and before he knew what she was doing she was suddenly on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck like a vice, and she was crying into the scarred skin of his neck. 

"I'm so sorry, Sandor, that he did that to you," she wept. 

But he was done thinking about it. She knew now, and he'd gotten through the telling of it unscathed. She still cried into his neck, though it was slowing now, and eventually she shuddered and hiccuped against his skin and sniffled. 

"I'm okay," he said again, his hands on her lower back. She had caught him off guard when she'd climbed onto his lap, and he didn't know who she was trying to console more—herself or him. So he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale the scent of her hair, comforted by her presence. 

Sansa pulled back to look at him, her eyes rimmed in red and her cheeks pink from crying. She inspected his face as if to make sure he actually was okay, and when she saw nothing amiss she gave him a small smile. 

"Love you," she whispered, cupping both sides of his face in her hands and rubbing over the two different surfaces with her thumbs. It was so poignant, and it struck him that she was treating one side like the other, and that to her there was no difference between the two. "All of you," she added, her tearful smile widening. 

Sandor closed his eyes then, enjoying the feel of her smooth skin against his face. But he opened them again and gave her the barest smile back. 

"Love you too."

~*~

Sansa was increasingly restless over the next week. He could tell by the way she held him during the night, and how he could sense by her breathing that she took a long time to fall asleep. He could see how she was restless whenever he happened to look at his phone and she'd inquire what he was doing. He knew she wanted to know as soon as anything was tripped on the alarms.

She was also cooking a lot. Like, a LOT. There was a cake on the counter, cookies in a large jar on the counter, and three casseroles in the fridge that would need to be frozen if they wanted to eat the leftovers. Every morning, noon and night she was cooking a different meal for him, doing an extraordinary job at using what supplies they'd had after pooling together their groceries from the two cabins. Soon he was going to run out of food and they would have to do something about it, but he would handle that when it happened. 

He had come inside one morning after checking the property around the cabins for tracks or anything that looked suspicious, only to find her refolding everything in his side of the dresser. He hadn't said anything, and she'd just smiled when she saw he was watching her. He then noticed everything on top of the dresser was moved and arranged neatly, his clothes hanging in the closet were color-coded, and their shoes and boots over by the wall were lined up with military precision. 

At times there was also a frantic feel to her lovemaking, which he didn't happen to mind, but afterwards he would always lay with her in his arms, examining what had happened between them. He'd think about the way she pulled at him to quicken his thrusts, or how she would hold his head when he'd press his mouth to her core, her heels digging into his sides over his shoulders. Sometimes she kissed him as though it was going to be the last kiss they would share—she would grab his hair, slide her tongue into his mouth and take control, kissing him with a passion that lit fires in his soul and exploded every one of his nerve endings. 

But he knew her better now, better than he had months ago when they'd first started to get close. He knew that despite relying on herself for months and months before meeting him, that as she had gotten to know him, she had slowly relinquished control. He felt that she was most comfortable when Sandor was... not controlling, but masculine. A bit assertive. It was hard for him to describe even to himself, when he sat back and analyzed their relationship, even now as he watched her walking around the cabin dusting at dust that wasn't there. 

In bed she normally took the more submissive role, which he again didn't mind. He liked the role it gave him, especially in bed, and loved the feel of her lithe body beneath his, her long limbs wrapped around him as he controlled the pace of his thrusts. Or when she would reach for him and he would respond by taking her arm and bringing his lips to her inner wrist, kissing a winding trail up her soft arm to her shoulder. She would relax because she knew his mouth would end up at her breast, taking her soft nipple into his mouth until it pearled under the onslaught of his tongue. She would moan and throw her head back, but she would resist fighting him for control as soon as he reminded her how good it could feel. 

So when she had started to become more demanding in bed, he knew something was wrong. He knew she was preoccupied with the impending visit from her past, and that she was perhaps nervous over the altercation that was to come. Sandor had to admit, he was nervous as well. His body might look like that of a killer but for the last decade or so he'd been living the quiet hermit life. Plus he was in his mid-thirties and Joffrey was what, ten years younger? More in his prime than Sandor, that was for sure. 

But what Sandor seemed to possess that Sansa didn't was the ability to take a deep breath and wait calmly. Sansa was anything but calm. She was going stir-crazy, and it was time for him to do something about it. To be... assertive. 

So when she wandered around, as much as he liked watching her stretch and move in those short shorts of hers, her long legs peeking out from under the hem, right at the spot he had spent kissing and licking last night—the backs of her thighs were so sensitive, he remembered with a flaring of his nostrils—he caught her hand and brought her dusting to a stop. 

Surprised, Sansa looked up at him, confusion on her face. "Why did you do that?" she asked, not unkindly. Sandor didn't want her to be upset so he spoke quickly. 

"I would like to paint you again," he said, and he took the duster from her hand and put it to the side. Sansa reached up with the hand he wasn't holding to brush a wisp of hair out of her face, the billowing sleeve on her green tunic appearing transparent in the sunlight coming through the low windows. 

"You can paint me dusting," she offered, completely serious. Sandor held back a snort. Dusting was not painting fodder. 

He stepped closer and pulled her hand to his waist, and seeing what he was doing, she forgot the dusting and with a smile wrapped her arms loosely around his waist. He didn't invite her to touch him like this often, so he knew it would distract her. 

"I want to paint you in a way I've never painted you before," he said huskily, and her eyes widened slightly and then narrowed, mirroring the desire he felt was showing in his own. But he had to school himself for the task he was setting in front of him—a task that wasn't going to be easy for him, at least. 

"Oh?" Sansa asked, her soft lips forming a provocative O that he desperately wanted to kiss. Her fingers played with the hem of his shirt, lifting it so she could drift her fingers along the top edge of his jeans where the sensitive skin of his lower back was exposed. He knew she liked to touch him, as he did her as well, but what he wanted to do most certainly did not involve touching. 

As her blue eyes looked up into his gray ones he started to feel nervous, that maybe she wouldn't go along with it. But he plowed ahead, saying, "Go put on what's on the bed," he said softly, his voice a lusty rasp. Then he added, "Please," knowing he needed to work on not sounding so demanding. Really, he was going to have to work on his sentence structure if he wanted to come off as friendly at all. 

But she looked at him now, curious as ever, and let her arms slide away with a smile. Then she turned towards the bedroom and cast one quick glance over her shoulder, her brows drawn together but a slight smirk on her face as she entered the bedroom. He walked over to the wall to ready his palette when he heard her shocked laugh. 

"Sandor!" She cried, though he could hear the laughter in her voice. She came walking out of the bedroom, holding out and staring at the folded sheet in her hands. "This?!" She said, her mouth working but no more words coming out. Speechless, she looked at the sheet and then up at him, and back to the sheet again. She giggled, though, so not all was lost, he thought. 

"I want to paint you in it," he said simply, by way of explanation. Again her mouth worked but no words came out, though her brows were drawn upward in surprise and she was smiling. 

Again she looked at him, laughing at what she held, and she turned and walked back into the bedroom. 

Well, she hadn't said no, he thought hopefully. 

As he squeezed paint out onto his palette he could hear rustling from the bedroom. He couldn't help but smile to himself. Was he actually going to get through a painting without joining her on the couch where she was going to be posing? He wasn't sure. Try as he might, he couldn't completely keep his arousal at bay so he concentrated on his task, lifting a large blank canvas to the landscape position and anchoring it into his easel. 

"Okay," came her amused but nervous voice from the doorway. Sandor didn't want to look at her but he also didn't want to be rude, so he pointed at the couch. "You can lay down there, but keep the sheet on." As she passed him to go to the couch he glanced at her—and couldn't look away.

She was like an angel wrapped in a revealing white robe, and she was absolutely stunning. Her hair was held up on top of her head with a hair stick and her neck and shoulders were completely bare. She held the sheet together in the front with a fist, while the other held the sides together, preventing it from splitting open. 

Sandor didn’t know for how long he stood there staring at her, but it was long enough for her to ease back into the cushions and get comfortable. Then, when it became obvious that he wasn’t going to pick up the paints and start working on the painting, she held up a hand and waved him over to her.

He came like an obedient dog. She loved him then on the couch in such a magnificent manner that the painting never quite got started. They had rearranged her when they were done and he had taken up his position in front of the canvas, naked and nearly unabashed, but their attraction for each other outweighed any desire he had to paint. 

Sandor was also conscious of the fact that it was taking her mind off of Joffrey and whatever it was they were waiting for. His heart hurt to see her worry as much as she had been, so as he laid between her legs and pressed his mouth to her curls, with her hands grasping tightly at his hair, he loved her with an abandon that he hoped surpassed all of time and space. No matter what was in their future, she would know that at one time he was utterly and completely hers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy Moly - 336 Kudos! You guys are amazing. Really. Every one of you. 
> 
> I'd like to crochet a hat for every reader, commenter, and kudo-leaver, and then wrap it in a shiny bow bow and hand-deliver it to your doorstep.
> 
> But because I can't, I'll just send you a virtual hug \o/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thanks to all you readers who have kept with me this far into this story! I think I know where I want this to go! And I apologize for making you wait <3
> 
> And thank you also to HardlyFatal, who has put up with my sporadic updates like a champ <3 Your beta skills have been indispensable!
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains severe violence and a smattering of death, please read with caution.
> 
> Also, my apologies for the 9,000-word chapter... My bad lol.

As the Alaskan summer moved into its hottest, driest season, reports of forest fires abounded. This was the case with every summer, and though Sandor had had some close calls here by the lake, they had never quite reached his side of it.

It made him queasy to think of what he would do if that happened. He made a conscious effort to just not think about it, but this time of year he always felt like he could feel the heat of the season on his face, feel the burning and crackling of spruce trees just underneath his skin. If he were afraid of spiders, it would be like feeling a thousand spiders crawling across his shoulder.

When Bill called him to inform him there was a fire about ten miles south of Sandor’s lake, Sandor told Sansa that they would have to prepare to evacuate. That meant keeping a bag packed by the door, and making sure they could get out in time. It was tough, knowing the driveway was a mile long and that a forest fire could cut them off from rescue in a heartbeat, but they did everything else they could think of to prepare for every other scenario but that one.

In that scenario, the lake would be their only option.

Later that day, as Sandor sat on a camping chair beside Sansa’s garden, his handgun holstered at his hip and his cell phone in his pocket, he watched her pulling weeds. She hummed as she worked, though it sometimes seemed as though she hummed to her plants. She looked happy to have an activity that was occupying her mind and her hands. After all, it couldn’t always be him.

He smiled at that thought, though, an action that was no longer so unfamiliar to him. He smiled quite a bit now, actually, and it was usually because of Sansa.

She wore that wide-brimmed gardening hat of hers, and a new sage green tank top that set off the fiery red color of her hair. She had grown accustomed to wearing her tank tops when they were at home and he was thankful for it--she was gorgeous. He didn’t think she’d ever be able to fully accept her scars, but he knew that SHE knew he accepted them--loved them, even, almost every night. With his hands. And his tongue.

Shit, he was getting hard. That happened a lot now, as well, and at odd times during the day. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wanted to make love to her outside, though with a looming threat in every shadow they had restrained themselves to indoor activities. But still--the porch, her garden, the shore of the lake, even IN the lake--the possibilities were endless and at some point he would like the opportunity to explore them.

There had been no word in the two weeks since their visit to Bill and Lucy’s, although Bill had promised to keep Sandor abreast of any developments he might hear. It made Sandor nervous but he didn’t breathe a word of it to Sansa. As long as he was able to keep her busy she was okay, but as soon as her hands became idle and she had a moment to stare out the window and let her thoughts wander, he could see her anxiety.

A change had been wrought in him from living with someone with the same kind of trauma that he had. It had brought him outside of his own trauma--into the realm of caring for her, alleviating her worry, occupying her time--to the point that his insecurities surrounding physical contact with her had all but melted away. 

When she fidgeted and rubbed at her hands he used them to pull her into his lap. If he found her leaning on the bathroom counter, doing nothing and looking at nothing, standing completely still while lost in thought, he would wrap his arms around her from behind and kiss at the soft skin of her neck, often brushing her hair out of the way to access her hairline just behind her ear--a spot he knew would cause her to shiver when stimulated. 

His aversion to human touch had disappeared once his hands found someone worthy of touching all the time. True, he likely would still avoid touching Lucy, and would probably only shake Bill’s hand if the man held it out to him. But when it came to Sansa, the connection between his rough skin and her soft flesh pulled at him, as though she were the substance of his addiction.

For the thousandth time he marvelled at her presence in his life. Sansa was his reason for living, his reason for socializing, the reason why he had gained a few pounds over the last few months as well as a few more gray hairs in his beard. If he closed his eyes and inhaled, as he did now, he could almost feel the scent of her body--her arousal, gods, was it sweet--in his nose, the scent of her skin as he brought his mouth close to it. She was delectable, and she was all his.

“Sandor,” Sansa was saying. She brought him out of his thoughts and he looked at her, hands clasped on his lap to hide his growing erection. She was looking at him, sitting back on her heels, her hands covered in dirt. Smiling her sweet smile at him, she asked, “Where were you?”

Sandor inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, smiling. At the smoldering look in Sandor’s eyes, she chuckled. “Never mind,” she murmured, shaking her head. 

“Dinner,” he teased, loving the blush that stole up around her neck and chest. “Get your head out of the gutter.” Sandor had to laugh when her head came up, her lips parted.

That was another thing that had changed about him--his ability to tease. It had come out one day, shocking both of them into speechlessness after he’d teased her about the amount of food that was in the cabin. He’d said--he couldn’t remember exactly… But oh, they’d laughed together, and it had been the sweetest thing.

Anything that ended in making love to her precious body was the sweetest thing.

The moment was interrupted by a chime sounding from his phone. He looked down and saw Bill’s number on the screen.

Sandor answered the call, but didn’t say anything. Bill knew of his phone etiquette issues.

“Sandor, there’s a small fire started about a mile from your cabin. The wind right now is in your favor but I think you and Sansa should come here, okay?” He phrased it as a question but Sandor knew that was only because Bill knew he would do the smart thing. Sandor wouldn’t risk Sansa or his newfound happiness and love for the chance that the wind wouldn’t change direction.

They were in the cabin gathering their things in less than a minute, and then sharing a passionate but short kiss on the porch a moment later, both of them wondering if it would be the last time they kissed on that porch. Sansa looked into Sandor’s eyes and he saw the faint shimmer of tears, but knew she wasn’t succumbing to them. Just as he now drew strength from her, she was pulling it from him, as well as courage and love.

Together they made it to his truck, throwing their bags in the back, and then drove down the driveway quickly on their way to Bill and Lucy’s house.

It never registered with Sandor that as they drove past the alarms, none of them sent alerts to his phone.

~*~

Sansa was nervous. Despite Sandor’s reassurances that the fires wouldn’t reach their cabins, she couldn’t help but think that humans do not dictate to the wind. And as they drove down the road she could see from the tops of the trees that the wind was blowing with increasing force, the tips of the trees bowing under its pressure.

Despite the early hour of the day, the air around them was darker than normal. There was less light illuminating the rippling and dancing birch tree leaves, and the road on which they drove was darkened as though it was dusk. Sandor drove on it with confidence, and to draw some of that from him she slipped over to the middle seat and put on her seatbelt again. In response he wrapped an arm around her back and she rested her cheek against his shoulder.

Once they reached Bill and Lucy’s driveway they pulled up in front of the front door. Sandor turned the truck off and put the key in his pocket, but remained sitting. Sansa looked up at him, smiling slightly, wondering if he was just anxious about having to be around people again. She said as much to him, to which he snorted in response.

“I suppose, yes,” he started, but then he paused and sighed. Sansa reached up to brush his hair away from his face, exposing his scars to her. They no longer fazed her--hadn’t for longer than she could remember--but she could see his eyes dart in her direction when she did it. 

“I just didn’t want anything to… disrupt… our time together.” It still took him some thinking to gather the right words before speaking, but she didn’t mind. Waiting for him to form sentences such as that one was like waiting for a flower to bloom. That he was becoming more open to speaking to her was cause for celebration, and, she thought with a blush, she privately celebrated quite often, every time they came together without clothes, and every time he put his hands or his mouth on her body, or came inside her.

Sandor looked down at her then, his serious expression turning to confusion before settling on faint amusement. 

“What are you thinking?” His pointed question and the smile that followed said he had at least an inkling of what her thoughts were, so she didn’t answer. She just reached over to cup his bearded cheek and brought his mouth down to hers, showing him with her lips and her tongue exactly what she was thinking. He growled against her mouth as he took the kiss deeper than she had for just a moment. But then his own hand came up to cup her neck as he groaned and broke the kiss. 

“I know, I know,” she breathed against his mouth, the ache deep between her legs ebbing despite the feathery contact between their mouths. “I need to stop, but it's hard.”

He opened his eyes to look at her, drawing away a few inches until she could see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s getting there,” he whispered, at which she blushed again. Then she giggled, still getting used to his brand of humor.

Together they got out of the truck and walked up to the door. Sansa looked at Sandor once they saw the note taped to the door, and at the same time they both looked back at the driveway, only now realizing Bill's truck wasn't there. 

They shared a glance before Sandor ripped the note off the door, opening it to read that Bill and Lucy had gone to get them when they couldn't get ahold of Sandor. 

Even to Sansa, it didn't make sense. Why would Bill have summoned them to his house, but then gone anyway to retrieve them from the cabin? And why hadn't they passed on the road? There was only one way to get from one to the other.

Sandor shared her concern, as she could see his brow furrow as he tried to piece together what was going on. 

"Maybe something happened," Sansa said, thinking out loud. "I didn't see any tracks going off the road but perhaps we should go look? Maybe they stopped off in town before going out to the cabin?"

Sandor nodded, but Sansa felt like he wasn't entirely present. The hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she reached out to take his hand, causing him to jump at the contact. 

"What do you think?" she asked, quietly. He nodded, and looked at her.

"Yes. Let's go," was his reply. 

The drive back to the cabin was absent of any sign of Bill and Lucy’s truck. Sansa and Sandor kept eyes on the sides of the roads, just in case one of them would be able to see the truck in the ditch or pulled off on a side road. They drove all the way back to the top of their driveway, where Sandor slowed to a stop, his eyes roaming the entrance and the surrounding trees.

“What do you think?” Sansa asked him again, the uneasy feeling under her skin growing more intense. 

Sandor remained silent, his hands gripping the steering wheel, the corded muscles in his forearms pulled taught.

Without answering, he put the truck into gear and slowly drove down the winding drive, his gaze scanning, looking. Sansa chose to do the same, though things were darker now. Above them in the tops of the trees she could see smoke that was blotting out the sun, and the further they drove, the more it seemed like dusk instead of the middle of the day.

Then, when they pulled closer to the cabin they saw fresh smoke rising from the other side. It seemed isolated, though on the other side of the lake she could see the forest, far away but yet close enough to know the darkness was caused by smoke and flames. The forest fire was there, and somehow something was burning near the cabin. There was no sign of Bill’s truck.

Sandor moved as though in slow motion--popping the gear shift into neutral before easing his foot off the gas, making sure the truck wouldn’t roll away before opening his door.

For a moment he looked back at Sansa, taking a couple seconds to allow his eyes to roam over her face. Her heart constricted, the fear in her own mind clouding over the memories of their time here. Now there was only concern, perhaps a bit of alarm, as rather than turning the truck around and driving away, he was going to go towards the fire,  _ on foot _ , no less.

She wanted to reach out to him, to grab him to her and to hold on, to wrap herself around his torso and force him to turn the key in the ignition and get them out of there. She wanted to shield his eyes from the fire, to shield them and rid them of the fear she now saw in their depths.  _ Fire _ , she thought, and her palms began to sweat.  _ He’s afraid of the fire _ .

But then, with a stern set to his mouth and a slamming of the truck door, he told her,  _ “Stay, _ ” as though she were a dog to obey commands. She wasn’t insulted--she knew he was looking out for her and not trying to be rude. It was his way, him, the man she had fallen so desperately and completely in love with over the last few months. 

And she watched him walk away, cautious as he slowed at the corner of his cabin.

Then he stopped, and she could see in his body the tension rolling off him in waves, the way he stood with his feet apart, his fists clenched.  _ Something’s not right _ .

Sansa looked around to see if she could see anything outside the truck, but there was only the other empty cabin, trees standing sentinel to the danger looming there on the other side of the lake. She knew if the wind turned, that fire could overtake them before they’d escaped the driveway.

She looked back to the cabin and didn’t see Sandor. He was no longer standing at the corner, nor was he heading back to the truck like she wished him to be. Inside her chest her heart was beating double time. 

A rush of love washed over her, the sensation choking her as she thought of how they had woken up this morning. They had been laying diagonally in his massive bed, her head on a pillow with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. His head was pillowed on her chest, his breath warming the thin sheet under his cheek. As he laid there with his breathing even and slow, she’d slowly lifted on hand to rest it on the arm he had wrapped around her. With the other hand she’d stroked his hair, his temple, the smooth skin of that side of his forehead, She had touched his beard, drew his long hair back and behind his ear, and had traced the shell of his ear and the slope of his neck.

It had been his great rumbling groan that signalled his wakefulness, but then his hand had drifted upwards to skim over her hardened nipple beneath the sheet, the pads of his finger tips brushing over the point as heat gathered between her legs, like a whirlpool of desire into which she yearned to disappear.

That lovemaking now felt like a distant memory, rippling as it dispersed into the atmosphere of her mind like the smoke above the treetops, bringing her back to the present. 

_ Sandor _ . If she had thought he would hear her, she would have yelled his name. 

How long had he been gone? It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, but she could tell the forest fire was getting closer, and through the open window on his side of the truck she could hear the groaning of the fire as it consumed all that was in its path. Great, loud crackling sounds reached her ears as wet trees fizzled and popped with the heat.

She made a decision and opened her door, wondering what had happened to him. What was he doing? That fire in front of the cabin, though not much bigger it seemed than a campfire, was still burning. Though surely he wouldn’t have attempted to put it out? Sacrifice the cabins, the property, and get them both out alive, she would have though his aim was. 

She walked slowly, slower than he had as she approached the edge of the cabin. She paused before she reached the side, hearing that low resonating sound of Sandor’s voice, only this was a voice she’d never heard before. He sounded…  _ angry _ .  _ Lord help anyone on the receiving end of Sandor as an angry man _ , she thought. 

Then, as she peered around the corner of the cabin, between two connecting logs where they left a gap big enough for her face, she saw Sandor.

He was on one knee, his other drawn up with a fist resting on it. His other fist was on the ground, as though he had fallen and he was struggling to get up. Sansa could see his hair all thrown over one side of his head, but his back was to her so she couldn’t see why he had done that.

The hand that was on the ground came up and he pushed a fist against the exposed side of his head-- _ the scarred side _ , she realized--and she moved to step out from behind the cabin, when she stopped herself--there was movement beyond Sandor, and soon a person came into view.

Sansa’s heart plummeted and she almost collapsed.

_ Meryn _ .

~*~

The paintings were burning. Every single one of them, and on the top of the pile were the edges of what used to be the paintings of Sansa. 

Oil paintings burned hot, he knew now. Sandor felt bile rise up in his throat, for so many agonizing reasons, watching now as the painting began melting together, the wooden frames snapping and crackling like tinder in a fireplace.

The first reason was that another man had seen his paintings of Sansa--this sleazy, balding man wearing clothes that looked like they’d been pulled out of a pillowcase. Sandor felt violated, knew that Sansa would feel the same if she knew what was happening. It was also heart wrenching to know how much of his work was going up in smoke. Those paintings--the ones of Sansa as well as all the others--were an extension of him, of who he was, and they were being destroyed. Had he not been groomed by experience from an early age to be the man he was today, he might have cried.

He could feel the heat of the flames on his face, the scarred side facing the burning pile but also being fully aware of the encroaching wildfire that even now crept around the side of the lake like a savage enemy force.

But his thoughts were on Sansa then, and how at any moment she might come around that corner and be faced with this sick excuse of a man dressed head to toe in black, who now held a gun in his hand that he had drawn from his waist. Sandor was sure the man also had a concealed handgun strapped to his ankle. There was a suspicious bulge under the man’s jeans there.

_ Pussy _ , he thought, though he was at the same time concerned that he would not be able to overcome this prick. As it was, the man had already ordered him to divest himself of his own handgun, which now sat in the dirt at the man’s feet.

_ Think _ ! 

“What do you want,” he ground out from where he knelt in the dirt. The pistol to the temple had dazed him, shocked as he’d been when he’d seen his paintings burning. It had come out of nowhere, and he knew this man wasn’t a stranger to creeping around on silent feet.

“Oh, nothing,” the man crooned, though his closely bearded smile betrayed his dishonesty. “I’m just going to hang onto you until my boss gets here.” Sandor blinked, his head pounding. He felt his shirt become wet and he brought his hand up to touch it, realizing it was blood. He hadn’t felt the trickle of blood flow over his scars. He pressed a fist to the wound, grimacing.

“And what comes after that?”

This time the look in the man’s eyes turned eager, almost  _ hungry _ . 

“We wait for your girlfriend, of course.”

Sandor’s eyes shot to the man, and the look he must have given the prick made that slimy smile falter for just a moment before it came back into place. But the doubt was still there, hidden in the depths of the man’s dark eyes. Sandor felt anger boiling within him at the thought of this man touching Sansa. He also knew then that they had been watched, and this man knew he and Sansa were together.

“And then?” He squeezed his eyes shut, the throbbing at his temple spiking outwards to envelop his forehead and scalp.  _ How much had this man seen? _

“You ask a lot of questions for a dead fucker,” the creep said, his laugh grating at Sandor’s skull.

He didn’t know what to do. If he rushed the guy, he’d be shot. There was no weapon in sight. His tools hung from the side of the cabin, and behind the man by several paces was his axe, but none of them were accessible to him. He had no choice but to stay where he was and wait for an opening, praying all the while that Sansa stayed in the truck, or--better yet--somehow saw him and realized she needed to go get help.

He prayed to hear the truck start and to hear the wiping out of tires as she sped away, but none came. Instead he stayed there, kneeling in the dirt, his head bleeding and pounding, listening to the crackle of flames licking off the paintings and the  _ whoosh _ ing of heat-driven gusts as the flames from the forest fire inched closer and closer to their side of the lake.

But then there was another sound, a scuffle accompanied by a couple grunts from someone other than Sansa, and then Sansa’s scream, happening behind him. He tried to turn quickly on his knee to see what it was, but his head rang with fingers of pain, grabbing ahold of his eyes and causing a rushing sound in his ears. He couldn’t focus, but he saw legs--two pairs--and an arm wrapped around Sansa’s waist.  _ Yes _ , that was her jeans, her tank top--

Then there was nothing.

~*~

Sansa wasn’t even able to make eye contact with Sandor after she had screamed, so fast was Meryn to grab the spade and to swing it in Sandor’s direction.

It hit his head with a sickening  _ thud _ as the hand clamped over her mouth, while she was already fighting the arm that had wrapped around her under her ribs. She watched as Sandor’s eyes rolled back into his head and closed, his body jerking from the strike and then falling, hitting the ground like a dead weight. For such a big man, the impact of his body against the ground struck her as surprisingly quiet. He went limp, and Sansa sobbed against the hand at her mouth.

It suddenly let her go, and the arm at her waist disappeared, so she rushed forward, not bothering to look behind her or at Meryn, who stood to the side with the spade resting on the ground. She was sure he would have looked proud of himself, had she looked.

“Sandor!” she cried, dropping to the ground at his side. She brought her hands up to brush the hair away from the side of his face and saw that it was covered in blood. She knew then that he must have been hit before she’d come around the corner of the cabin, because it wasn’t where the shovel had hit him. She put her fingers on his cheeks, touched his forehead, tried to whisper his name and make him wake up, but he didn’t move. Underneath the hair on his strong neck she could see the flutter of a pulse, but she didn’t know anything about injuries, and felt for sure if he stayed there without medical attention, that he would die. She could see the back of his head was bleeding as well, and she brought one hand up to cover her mouth at the same time her other went around to press on his wound.

“Sandor, please, wake up! Sandor, no!” Tears fell from her face onto his and he didn’t even flinch. She sobbed, patting his cheek, his chest, grabbing at his hand and shaking it as she cried. But he didn’t wake, didn’t move, and her heart shattered at the realization of what was happening.

She was going to lose him. Joffrey’s guys had caught up to them, and they were going to kill Sandor. And then either they were going to kill her, too, or  _ worse _ \--they were going to take her back to Joffrey.

She looked up then, seeing Meryn’s smug satisfaction through her tears. 

“ _ Meryn!! _ ” she screamed. She didn’t know what to say, so she just cried, directing her anger at the man who had given her so many of these scars, who had beaten her to within an inch of her life who knows how many times. The man who had held her down while others beat her, who had shared in her torture, her beatings, her  _ burns _ , the same ones Sandor had caressed and kissed and tasted mere hours before.

_ Sandor _ , her heart cried, though verbally it came out as an anguished wail, her head dropping to his chest as she grasped both of his shoulders in her hands. He was warm, his big body still and silent against the turmoil in her heart. Her hair fell over her shoulder and she brushed it out of his face, feeling blood come away with it.

“Now, isn't that sweet.”

Sansa froze. That voice stole the air from her lungs before the kick in the ribs came after to finish the job.

She groaned as she was pushed away from Sandor, her arms sliding around her abdomen as she slumped heavily at his side.  _ That feeling _ , of ribs bruising, of it hurting to draw air into her lungs, was familiar. She hadn’t lived long enough--would probably never live long enough--to forget how it felt to be kicked in the ribs.

She looked up, her breathing ragged and painful, into the eyes of Meryn who now stood over her, a sickening gleam to his smile as he stood with his hands on his hips.

“Now, now, Meryn, we mustn’t make it so that she passes out.” 

_ Joffrey _ .

Sansa drug her eyes away from Meryn to where Joffrey stood, some feet away from her shoes. Seeing him there, knowing he had had a hand in what had happened to Sandor, made her face flame with anger. It very nearly hid the fear clawing at her throat. Almost.

Sansa rubbed her side where Meryn had kicked her, wincing as she pushed on the spot. She didn’t think any were broken, but it was only a matter of time before he kicked her again. And Meryn’s track record said he would go for the same spot if given the chance.

Leaning back on her elbows, she crawled backwards slowly, bringing herself to a sitting position while trying to keep an eye on both men. She ended up looking between the two, her head darting forward and back and Meryn slowly made his way to the path behind her down to the shore. But he stood there, pulling a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it. Then he stood, thumb hooked into his belt loops in front of the studded leather belt, smoke leaking out from between his teeth.

Sansa looked at Joffrey, not sure what she should do. Fear fed her words as she looked at the man who had made her life a living hell, who had ruined her family,  _ killed _ most of her family.

His hair was shorter, as though he had recently gotten a haircut, and he was still sporting that shameful excuse of a mustache. But the glint in his eyes was still one of arrogance, of authority. He looked happy, as though he had found his prize. She couldn’t tell based on his expression if she was going to live to see the end of this day.

“I’ve been looking for you, Sansa.” His voice--it made her skin crawl. He spoke in a low, sticky sweet tone, as though he were talking to a child. There was no malice in its depths, but she knew how dangerous he could be when he used that tone.

She had nowhere to go. She couldn’t crawl backwards because Meryn was there, and she couldn’t go sideways--Sandor was to her right, and there was so much foliage to her left that they would surely catch her before she got to her feet.

“Oh, Sansa, baby,” Joffrey hummed, stepping closer. He held one hand out, like he was showing an animal he meant no harm. Sansa wanted to spit at him. “You know I had to find you, honey. You know I’d miss you, I’d miss your voice and your body.” His smile widened, showing her his small teeth. “I needed to find you--”

“No,” she interrupted, panicking, “No, you didn’t. You could have left me alone.”

This brought him up short. He put his hands on his hips, just underneath the edge of his black leather jacket. 

“Now now, you know I couldn’t do that.” There was anger creeping into his voice as he stepped closer to her. His eyes darted upwards at Meryn behind her and back to her face, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off him. “You see, you  _ wronged _ me.” He put emphasis on the word, despite his tone now being a mix of calm and fury, as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “You wronged me, and you wronged my family, and now I’m going to make you pay.”

He stopped and stood straight, his mouth opening as though she had reminded him of something.

“Oh, wait!” he exclaimed, and he grinned. 

Then he looked over at Sandor.

“This guy!” Joffrey walked over to the motionless Sandor. “Hey! Hey you!” He gave Sandor a good kick in the side, much as Meryn had done earlier. Sandor didn’t respond. 

“You stole my girlfriend, you dickhead!” Joffrey looked at Sansa and giggled. “Now, why do you think he thought he could do that, hmm? Why do you think--” the humor left his voice and he rounded on her fully, “--he thought he could touch you--” he pointed at the pile of burning paintings, “--and kiss you, and  _ see _ you, when you belong to me? Hmm?! Why??”

Sansa’s gaze darted to the burning pile, and she could see now what it was--the wooden frames of Sandor’s paintings, where once they had canvases stretched over them, canvases of the mountains, the lake…

With a sickening dread pooling in her stomach, Sansa now knew what Joffrey had seen. 

“Joffrey, please, listen--” she begged.

“NO!” He shouted at her and she flinched. “These paintings,” he flung his hands in the direction of the fire, “showed you! Some of them  _ naked! _ ” He walked towards her then and she fell back, her shoulder blades digging into the dirt and roots beneath her. He stalked towards her until he was hovering above her, a finger pointed at her face. Joffrey emphasized each word as he yelled, “He. Saw. You. Naked!”

Sansa could see nothing but rage on his face. Then he fairly screeched at her.

“ _ My property! _ ” His eyes flicked up and Sansa barely had enough time to react before Meryn’s hand was in her hair, grabbing a fistful at her scalp. Sansa screamed as she felt some hair give way, as he pulled it out of her head as he pulled her by the handful down the rooted, bumpy path to the shore of the lake. She held his wrist with both of hers, desperately trying to take some pressure off her scalp.

“Joffrey, please,  _ Meryn! _ ”

“That’s fucking right, Sansa, he’s hurting you.” Joffrey followed them, his movements quick and light, but his voice a hint calmer now. “Pull her up,” he ground out, then he stood in front of he and Meryn as the second man dragged her up in front of him, hand still clamped into her hair. “He’s hurting you because you fucked that guy when you were still mine. You still  _ belong _ to me, Sansa. Hold her,” came the quick order, and Sansa’s hands were still up around Meryn’s wrist when Joffrey’s fist pounded into her stomach.

Sansa cried out and would have fallen if Meryn hadn’t tightened his grip, letting her know she was to remain standing. She tried to thin, tried to remember how she had dealt with the beatings when she’d lived with Joffrey. What had worked? What had made them go  _ faster _ ? What had made him  _ want to stop _ ?

“Yes, Joffrey,” she said, sobbing now and in pain. But it didn’t stop him, as another punch hit her against the right side, moments before her hands dropped to block him. Meryn let go of her hair but his hands clamped like vices on her upper arms, holding her still and upright for Joffrey to do what he wished.

“Joffrey,” she said, her voice plaintive. “I did betray you, and I’m sorry!” Anything to get him to stop. Anything to get him to go back to the cabin so that she had a chance to save Sandor, to get at her phone in the truck, to call an ambulance.  _ Anything _ .

“You fucking bitch, you think an apology is what I want now?”

Sansa didn’t know what to say. She nodded through her tears. And Joffrey  _ laughed _ .

“Fucking idiot,” he trilled, shaking his head as he looked out over the lake. “No, Sansa, I don’t want an apology.” He turned, looked her up and down, making her feel like his gaze was a physical thing as he rubbed her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. She shuddered.

“I want revenge,” he said softly, almost another croon as he walked towards her over the dirt and debris on the shoreline. “I want to make you hurt, I want to make you feel pain, and then?” His face was close now, closer than she ever thought she’d be to him again. His breath was a puff against her mouth. 

“I’m going to kill you.”

~*~

It seemed like total darkness now. He could smell smoke, could smell the acrid scent of burning oil paint, and he could hear the hissing of the forest fire as it came closer and closer to their side of the lake. Smoke obscured his view of the sky.

Sandor tried to focus, but it was so hard. His temple screamed at him, but no more than the back of his head. As memories tickled back in, it just hurt more.  _ Thinking _ hurt.

But then he heard voices.

Sansa’s. The guy who burned the paintings. And another. Mostly the third voice. 

And Sansa’s was upset. No, crying. She was crying, and every few sobs was punctuated by a scream.

“Sansa,” he tried to say, but his voice came out in a whisper as a wave of pain flashed through his head, so great that nausea overcame him and he turned over, retching into the dirt.

When it passed he lay there, smelling vomit and blood and dirt, until he felt he could roll over without vomiting again. He did so successfully, and now faced the path down to the shore.

As his vision grew clearer, so did his hearing. They were beating Sansa, he knew. He could see in the distance as the man’s voice was peppered with swings of his fists, perhaps slaps from his palm, as Sandor heard the occasional  _ crack! _ and then saw Sansa’s face fly sideways, her hair a spray of red against the gray of smoke rolling over the lake’s surface.

He had to get to her. No other thought entered his mind, except to look towards where the first man had been standing when Sandor had been on his knees.

_ There _ , in the dirt, lay his gun. Ten feet away, ten feet in the opposite direction from where Sansa was being beaten, pounded into by the blonde man. But he didn’t have a choice. A gun was his only defense, since he was confident that his body would fail him.

He hoped they didn’t see him, though he was certain the two men thought he was dead. His ribs protested, and he realized he must have been given a few kicks in them while he was unconscious. By the level of pain he was feeling, he was sure he had at least a few fractured, hopefully no worse than that. 

He pulled himself on his stomach over to the pile of dirt where the gun lay, every muscle in his body protesting, his head screaming at him to stop, but he gritted his teeth.  _ They will not have her _ , he swore to himself, as he reached out to wrap his fingers around the gun. Sixteen rounds in the gun with one in the chamber, but he prayed two would be enough. 

He didn’t know how long it took him, but he pulled his body down the path, slowly and painfully, watching the men through sometimes blurry vision to verify they hadn’t seen him.

He could see the forest fire in his peripheral vision--it was almost on his property. He guessed they had ten minutes before their only escape would be the lake. He wished he had a boat, or a canoe--anything. Anything that meant he wasn’t going to risk him and Sansa drowning if they went into the lake. But he didn’t, so he was going to have to deal with it.

When he was almost to the break in the trees where the shore of the lake started, he watched the blonde man--Joffrey, he knew now, as he heard Sansa softly begging him by name to stop--back away from her and pause.

“I must say, Sansa,” he said in a tone that belied his cruelty, “Those scars are quite becoming. Don't you think, Meryn?” The man named Meryn looked down at Sansa's bare shoulders, smiling as though remembering the pleasant memories of giving them to her. 

Joffrey added, as he pulled his belt out of its loops, “Let's give you a few more, shall we?”

The belt came down on the arm Meryn let go of, and Sansa’s scream brought the bile back into Sandor’s throat. But he held it back.  _ Shoot now! _ his mind screamed, but he put his forehead down onto the dirt, fighting the wave of nausea that nearly overtook him. Another scream seemed to echo off the surface of the lake, magnified by the vast emptiness beyond them, and Sandor knew he had no choice but to swallow back the vomit and pull up the gun.

He brought it around and in front of his face, trying to figure out who to shoot first. He aimed at Joffrey, but hesitated. The belt came down a third time, this time onto Sansa’s other arm as she cowered on the ground at Meryn’s feet. Blood was trickling down her arm, her hair was wild and she was a tiny ball of fear, curled into the fetal position. 

If Sandor shot Joffrey, he would be leaving the one man he was positive was carrying at least one gun, and that could be the choice that killed them.

On the other hand, shooting Meryn first might be the mistake because Joffrey might have a gun--in all likelihood, it would be odd if he  _ didn’t _ . 

Either way, Sandor had to shoot one of them and he needed to achieve it on the first try.

He watched Meryn take a long drag on his cigarette as Joffrey, breathing hard and taking off his jacket, paused in his beating. The younger man looked between Sansa, trembling and crying at the edge of the lake, and Meryn, and seemed to come to a conclusion that pleased him.

“Meryn!” he said, excitedly. His eyes widened and he took on a smile on his face that would have made any mom’s heart flutter with love. The way he looked at the older man now spoke of a little boy’s excitement for the next activity he’d thought up. 

Sandor wanted to shove his gun down Joffrey’s little throat and pull the trigger.

“What, Joff,” the other man said, almost sounding like a father figure with the nickname.

“That cigarette you have,” started Joffrey, and Sansa’s reaction was immediate. Her head came up and it was as though she’d forgotten she had just been whipped three times in the arms with a belt.

“No!” she cried, shaking her head, looking between Meryn and Joffrey as her face contorted into a mask of terror. She backed up, crab-walked towards the edge of the lake, moans and mewls accompanying her pleas. “Please no, God no,” she sobbed, but Meryn was already advancing on her.

“I see what you mean, Joff,” he said, his back now to Sandor. But Sandor could hear the pleasure dripping from his tone.

It was now or never. Sandor would never let anyone press a cigarette, or beat, or whip Sansa again. Ever.

He lifted the gun and aimed as Joffrey, too, turned his back, as Joffrey turned towards the retreating Sansa as her hands and bottom and feet hit the lake water in turns.

_ Aim _ , he commanded his body,  _ Squeeze the trigger _ , and a blast resounded through the air, suddenly causing his brain to feel like it was exploding within his skull. His head dropped to the ground for a moment before he raised it again, the pounding inside his skull almost unbearable.

He watched Meryn fall towards Sansa and for a moment thought he had failed. But Meryn’s feet did not move, and he fell face-first into the water at the edge of the lake, dead before he hit the bottom.

Time froze, and Sandor could see Joffrey and Sansa look at Meryn’s body in shock, Sansa’s face now dotted with Meryn’s blood. Her chest was heaving, her breathing hard, and he saw the exact moment she realized what had happened when her eyes slowly lifted up to meet his. He saw shock in her eyes, her mouth parted and hair falling over her forehead.

He stared at her, wished he could reach out to her then, but there was one more problem to take care of. And Joffrey was only a moment slower than Sansa to take in what was happening. His head snapped towards Sansa, and then up the shore to where Sandor lay in the dirt, the gun now pointed at Joffrey’s face.

But just as he squeezed the trigger, another wave of nausea roiled through his body and his vision turned spotty, black and clouded. His head fell into the dirt again, and when his hand hit the ground he found he could not lift it. Weakness overtook all his functions and he vomited again, moments before losing consciousness.

~*~

“Fucking,  _ damnit!! _ ” Joffrey reeled backwards, his hand clamping against his neck. Blood slithered out between his fingers where the bullet had grazed his skin.

And just like that, Sansa disappeared to him. She watched as he stomped up the shore, heading to where Sandor lay, the young man’s fists clenching and unclenching as he bore down on the unconscious Sandor.

It was seeing him unmoving again, so soon after realizing that he was still alive, that spurred her to action. She shook off the shock at seeing Meryn’s face explode above her and pushed herself to stand. Going around Meryn’s body, she ran on shaky, uncertain legs towards Joffrey’s back, though with no weapons she didn’t know what she’d be able to do to stop him. So she used her body, rushing in front of him as though she could stop him with her presence.

His response was to not even look at her, but to shove her away with both arms against her side, using the force of his body to propel her into the bushes at the beginning of the trail, just where Sandor was lying. 

She landed heavily, the breath rushing out of her body as pain radiated from--she couldn’t tell where, it was  _ everywhere _ . Her arms, her face where he had slapped her, her abdomen with innumerable points of pain and bruising from his beating--they all caused her entire body to scream at her. 

Joffrey took the gun away from Sandor’s lifeless hand and tucked it into the waistband of his pants as she heaved and sputtered, turning over to rest on her hands and knees as she hacked and coughed. She stood, bracing her hand against the nearby tree and again, she stumbled towards Joffrey, trying to push him away from where he was now attempting to grab ahold of Sandor’s hand. He would grab the large wrist in his own small hands and pull towards the shore, before Sansa would break the contact and he would shove her off again.

Again and again, she tried, but Joffrey was getting angrier and angrier. She knew that look--he was going to snap, and if he was trying to kill Sandor  _ now _ , who knew what he was going to do when she pushed him past his limit.

She had to think of something,  _ anything _ , to stop Joffrey. 

_ Her phone! _

With a strangled cry she left Sandor, left Joffrey to his evil machinations, and she tripped over her own sluggish feet as she ran through the bushes in a straight line to the truck. When she reached it she flung herself against the hood, not sure if her legs were going to carry her all the way around to the open door. She managed to crawl around, using her hands to guide her and to grasp any crevice they could find until she was pulling herself towards the open cab and reaching for her purse.

She was quickly able to dial 9-1-1, but the signal was busy. She knew why--the wildfire had come around the edge of the lake and was making its way towards them. Through the trees she could see the column of smoke was dangerously close, and she knew if she didn’t get Sandor away from there, and now into the truck and out of their driveway, he was going to die.

_ Fuck _ Joffrey.

But no, she couldn’t have that attitude. Now was the time to deal with him, once and for all, and she knew exactly what she’d have to do.

It took her a couple seconds to gather enough courage but she did it, taking a deep breath and mentally fortifying herself before setting off in the direction of the cabin. She tucked her phone into her pocket and walked as fast as she could to the area where Sandor chopped wood, just on the far side of his cabin. 

As she passed the trail to the shore she glanced down it, noting that Joffrey was perhaps halfway between the shore and the lake.  _ He means to drown Sandor _ , she thought. The implications of it hastened her steps.  _ No, _ she thought, remembering Sandor’s smile, his touch, the way he spoke softly to her, the way he touched her and cared for her and loved her.  _ He will not die today _ . Like a vow it repeated in her mind, like a mantra meant giving her courage and strength.

The strength she needed to heft Sandor’s axe out of the chopping block, and to drag it behind her as she shuffled down to the lake.

Joffrey was almost to the water with Sandor’s body, the erratic drag marks and footholds leaving a straight path to the edge. She had to look away, lest the sight of her big man’s lifeless body drag her down into the bottomless depths of hopelessness. She  _ had _ to save him.

Her hands were sore as she focused on Joffrey, and his heaving as he pulled on Sandor’s arm. He dropped it and it fell into the water as Sansa struggled to get the axe past a root that was lifted from the ground. Joffrey was in the water pulling, tugging Sandor until his hair was wet, his face inches from the water’s edge. 

At last she was on the shoreline and she lifted the heavy axe to her shoulder. She trudged down to the water, keeping a short distance between her and Joffrey.

He was mad, in a rage, and she knew he would not notice her, not unless she wanted to be known. So when he slipped as he was pulling Sandor and he stumbled into the water, she moved closer. Then as he righted himself and the roar of the forest fire was in their ears, and the heat of it was licking at their skin, and he was moments away from getting Sandor face-down in the lake water, she heaved the axe into both hands. 

The handle was worn smooth and she gripped it with all her might.

Joffrey righted himself, and pulled his pants back up around his thin waist, his blonde hair wet with sweat from his exertions. 

Sansa lifted the axe so it rested on her shoulder, the metal head hanging over her back. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, adjusting it like a person going to bat.

Joffrey flexed his fingers, his aim of Sandor’s hair as clear as the imminent danger they faced from the fire.

Then she hefted the weight of the axe, feeling the pull of bruised ribs and torn muscles in her torso, and with a yell she brought it down towards Joffrey’s back as hard as she could.

Like a cleaver, it rent a tear in Joffrey’s body nearly half a foot deep, splitting his shoulder from his spine as surely as if she had heaved the great axe into a loaf of bread. He made no noise, and Sansa never saw his face as he fell forward into the water, the joy of ridding the world of her greatest enemy lost in the urgency to turn Sandor over and drag his body into the lake. 

The fire was almost to the cabins by now, slinking through their sanctuary like a thief, stealing from them the tangible memories she had made with Sandor during their months together in their tiny corner of the world. As she dragged Sandor, his body moving more easily as more of it entered the water, she watched the flames overtake the wood pile beside his cabin, the big log chopping block where she had just torn the axe from its rings, and to the porch of the cabin where they had shared their most intimate moments.

The flames licked at the roof until they spread, reaching its peak as the front was consumed by the heat, as Sansa began feeling the weight of Sandor, despite still being able to feel the bottom of the lake with her feet. She wrapped her arms around him, telling him she loved him, yelling at him to wake up, crying at him and sobbing when he didn’t respond. 

Then she began to tread water, and despite the pain, despite the cramping and the agony screaming at her from within her own body, she somehow managed to drag Sandor while keeping a reasonable amount of air in her lungs, no matter how smoky it got.

When she felt sand beneath her feet she thought she had reached the opposite side of the lake, but when she looked around she found herself on a hidden sandbar, and so she sat, neck-deep in water with Sandor resting on her lap and his head back against her shoulder, with her arms wrapped around him as fire destroyed everything around them. 

She stroked his hair, every so often feeling his pulse to make sure his heart was still beating. She knew as long as it beat, there was hope for them. So she talked to him, touched his face, joked that she should have put her phone in a sandwich baggie, and she held him to her, her arms wrapped around his large torso, until she could no longer see any land for the smoke around them.

It choked her, so she knew it would bother Sandor. She pulled his wet shirt up and over his nose, allowing a small measure of space between his mouth and the fabric, and did the same for herself.

Then she waited, the minutes ticking by as she pondered what was going to happen to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thank you for reading this! 
> 
> I CANNOT TELL YOU how hard this was for me to write. I like fluff and smut and fluffy fluffernutter - I have never written anything so chock-full of violence. Please, for the sake of my sanity, post honest comments below and critique the crap out of my work, I'm begging you <3
> 
> All my love to you guys, you totally rock my world even if you aren't aware of it!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home stretch! It's this chapter and then an epilogue <3
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for hanging in there while I gave sporadic updates and played with your emotions.
> 
> I'm sorry. I've been bad.
> 
> At least it was because I was working on other Sansan fics <3

Sandor awoke to the beeping of machines and the sterile smells of a hospital room. His entire body ached, and he was sure that if he moved, he would likely pass out from the pain. 

He couldn't remember much-- smoke, lots of smoke, and Sansa, her arms around him. He remembered thinking that he was going to drown, and as he thought on that, more memories started flooding back to him.

Joffrey. A man named Meryn. Sansa struggling against thin arms.

"Sansa," he tried to say, but the name only came out as a raspy whisper. He tried to open his eyes but found them incredibly dry.

"Shhh, don't try to speak."

_ Lucy _ . But she and Bill were lost, somewhere with the forest fire that had ravaged the lake.

He blinked and felt his vision clearing, though everything was still blurry. Just a few more tears, he thought, and he'd be able to see.

A straw was held against his mouth, and he drank.

"Ah, ah," she said, her motherly tone telling him she knew what was best for him. "Not too much. We've been told you need to go slow."

His throat felt immeasurably better from the few sips of water.

"Sansa," he said again. There was his voice. He was relieved, probably for the first time in his life, that he could now communicate.

"Oh, she's fine. She's around here somewhere with Bill." A small hand laid on his shoulder and Sandor flinched, but she didn't pull it away.

"You had us really worried," Lucy was saying, closer now to him than she was a moment ago. "You have a concussion, and they beat you up pretty bad. Sansa hasn't left your side for days, and just a little while ago I convinced her to go get something to eat because I wouldn't leave you. She wouldn't go until I promised her that much."

Sandor tried blinking again, and he could see her now-- Lucy, kind and aging Lucy. 

"You and Bill..." he started, but it still hurt a bit to talk. Lucy's face came into view and she smiled kindly at him, holding the cup out for another sip.

"Those awful men tied us up nice and tight, and we weren't found until Sansa told the rescue helicopter pilots that you were looking for us. We were in the garage the whole time--even when you drove into our yard after Bill called you. Took our car and dumped it on the other side of town, they did, then they tricked you into going back to your cabin."

The pieces were all falling into place for Sandor, now that he knew why Lucy and Bill hadn't been at their home when he and Sansa had arrived. It was because Joffrey and Meryn had already been there.

"They hurt you?"

A feminine chuckle, and she was patting his shoulder with her hand.

"They might have grabbed us and pushed us down, but we weren't hurt." Then her voice sobered, and she rubbed his shoulder with her fingertips, and he somehow didn't quite feel the unease he'd thought he would feel at the touch. "No, they were after one thing and one thing only. Sansa."

"How is she? Is she..."

"Hurt? No, not as badly as you." Her voice trailed off and he saw her look away. When she looked back, there were tears in her eyes. "Sansa was beat pretty bad, but all her injuries were on the outside. Sandor, she's going to have quite a few new scars."

He was surprised she didn't remove her hand at the anger that shook his body. How dare those fuckers lay a hand on Sansa. If they weren't dead, they would be, as soon as he got out of the damned hospital.

But as his vision cleared, Bill walked into the room carrying two coffee cups.

"There's our boy!" His wide smile was pure happiness at seeing Sandor awake. 

The way he addressed Sandor shocked him. It was so... familiar. Like they had claimed him, like Bill had decided they were closer than they actually were.

First Lucy's hand on his shoulder, and now Bill? Sandor wasn't sure what to think.

"Where's Sansa?" 

"She'll be right in, just went to use the restroom. I'm glad you're awake, Sandor." Bill walked over and handed a cup of coffee to Lucy. She took it with a warm smile in the older man's direction, and he laid the now empty hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own, and it struck him how deeply in love they must be. They'd always been that way--he just never noticed.

"I'm..." He tried to work around the lump in his throat, the ball of anger and happiness that was warring with each other. Anger at the men who attacked them, but happy that Sansa was alright, and was probably moments from joining them. "I'm glad you are okay," he said awkwardly to the older couple. They both smiled in return.

"We're fine, but--" Lucy's smile fell, and her hand left Bill's to pat Sandor's shoulder. "Your cabin, Sandor, it's a total loss. So is Sansa's. They're gone."

Her face shone with such sadness that he had to look away. He wasn't used to people showing such emotion over him, for him. The only person he ever made feel anything was Sansa, and she wasn't here yet. 

"The fire took everything back there--your cabins, your vehicles, everything that was in the yard." Bill's voice was sad, but he smiled quickly to cover it, and said brightly, "But that means we can rebuild for you. One cabin on your property."

One? So Sansa was leaving? Is that what that meant? Bill didn't mentioned Sansa's cabin, only Sandor's. 

He could understand. She'd want to run again, wouldn't feel safe anywhere as long as those goons were hanging around. He tried to ignore the crushing sadness in his heart, and turned his head to nod towards the window.

"The men who attacked us?" He choked out the words but he wasn't holding out hope that the danger was over.

"Well, Sansa said you managed to shoot one of them before you passed out." Bill stopped, clearing his throat. Sandor didn't bother looking back. So Joffrey got away, he thought. Fucking figures.

"Sandor!"

It was the voice he had been looking forward to hearing, and now felt a measure of dread at the same time. He turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain in his neck. When he opened them it was to see a red head rushing towards him and a body lying over his in an awkward hospital bed hug. 

He winced at the pain he felt, the pressure in his chest and the pounding in his head. Ignoring the way his shoulders protested, he lifted his arms to wrap them around her, grateful that she was here and alive and not stuck in a hospital bed. 

But he had two things on his mind, two overwhelming things that prevented him from feeling happiness--she was leaving, and Joffrey had gotten away.

"We'll leave you two to be reunited," said Lucy, an oddly bright smile on her face. Bill's was the same, and he winked at Sandor before he walked his wife out.

"Sandor, I'm so glad you're awake," Sansa was saying, and when she lifted her face to look at him she was crying, tears leaving streaks down her face. "You've been in and out for a couple days now, and it's been killing me to see you here like this."

Sandor grunted, and she appeared to realize she may be causing him discomfort.

"I'm so sorry!" she said, lifting up. She braced her hands on either side of his torso and looked down at him, a watery smile on her perfect face. Her hair fell to the side, loose and brushed smooth, the tips touching his hospital gown.

But there were patches, bandages, wrapped around her upper arms in several places. She wore an unfamiliar t-shirt, and he could see bruises on her face, neck and arms. Sandor grimaced.

"That fucker," he growled, unable to take his eyes off the discolorations on her skin. Sansa's eyes followed his and she brought one arm up to touch the marks on the other, perching her hip on the edge of the bed.

"They'll heal," she said, almost sadly. But then she looked up at him, suddenly shy and he thought he knew why.

This is where she told him she'd be leaving, where she told him that since she didn't have a cabin anymore, didn't have any belongings, that she would be moving on. She'd find somewhere else to settle for the time being, and she would perhaps find someone else to warm her bed at night. 

Bill had said her cabin was gone, and that they would rebuild Sandor's cabin. His heart was nearly overcome with sadness. He didn't want to rebuild his cabin. 

But Bill and Sansa must have spoken about her plans, as Bill hadn't mentioned anything about rebuilding Sansa's--

"I killed him."

Sandor's eyes shot up to hers and he winced at the sharp pain he felt in his neck. 

Sansa was looking at him, her expression blank. Then she shrugged, just slightly lifting and dropping her slim shoulders, but it was there. Sandor blinked, and then he blinked again when her face didn’t betray anything else.

“Who?”

“Joffrey.” She looked down at her hands and he prayed she looked unhappy over taking someone’s life, and not  _ whose _ life she had taken.

But no, he decided she would never have regretted killing Joffrey. Not after what he had done to her, not after what he had his men do to her. Sansa wouldn’t regret ridding the world of that piece of shit, he was sure of it.

“I used your ax,” she said, and Sandor winced. He couldn’t imagine how horrible it must have been for her, to not only see him reduced to a hunk of unconscious meat, but to be beaten yet again by her tormentors, to watch one of them die by Sandor’s hand, and then to have to kill the other with an ax.

He slid his hand to hers and covered both of them in her lap as she went on.

“He was going to kill you, and I had gone to get my phone to call the police but I couldn’t get through, and then I saw the ax… I didn’t think, I just grabbed it.” She sniffed, and a tear fell on their hands. “He was going to kill you, Sandor,” she said again, and when she looked him in the face this time he had trouble believing she was leaving.

She had such sadness and anguish in her eyes that he didn’t complain when she gingerly laid down beside him and rested her head softly on his shoulder to cry. He wrapped his arm around her, being careful to not disturb the IV in the back of his hand, and just held her to him while she cried out the ordeal they’d been through. 

He couldn’t imagine a life without her, and again he contemplated telling her that he would go with her, that he would follow her wherever she went. After all, there was nothing tying either of them to the lake anymore, except the land itself. And she had said she had some family somewhere--a brother and a sister, he thought--who perhaps they could track down. And then they could start a life together.

He pictured them together, driving on a flat highway with nothing around them--no trees, no mountains, probably somewhere in the middle of who-knows-where Idaho, and he knew his home would always be at her side.

His decision made, he spoke.

“When you go, I want to go with you.” 

Sansa sniffed a couple times and propped herself up on her elbow, looking over at him, his head propped up by the bed’s slight incline. 

“What are you talking about? Where am I going?”

Her face was utter confusion, and Sandor paused. There was something he was missing, and he couldn’t think through the fog of pain medicine to figure out what it was.

“Bill said I would rebuild. He never said you were going to.”

“Well, yes, we’re going to build a cabin, Sandor. For  _ us _ . For you and me.” Her brow furrowed and she screwed up her mouth a bit, as though his thoughts had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Unless… Wait, I don’t understand.”

Sandor groaned and let his head roll away on the pillow, bringing his other hand up to rest on his forehead.

“Neither do I,” he said, then he dropped his hand, not wanting to disturb the bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sandor, and neither are you. Bill told you I was leaving?”

Sandor looked back at her--so close, so beautiful.

“No, but he didn’t say you were staying, either.” Sandor swallowed. “I didn’t know Joffrey was dead.”

Sansa smiled then, just a small one but it changed her face and made his heart trip in his chest.

She looked as though she had a secret, though as she started to lean towards him he suddenly wondered if he already knew what it was. Her eyes were on his lips as she scooted up further, until his arm was beneath her side and her face hovered above his.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sandor,” she said, bringing her other hand up to touch his face. She let her fingertips drift down the length of his nose, over his cheek, and into his beard. The whole while she had that small, knowing smile on her face, and he wanted nothing more from her than to confirm his desires and press her mouth against his.

“Kiss me, Sansa,” he said, his voice hoarse with longing and pain and love. 

She did, softly at first before he parted his lips and he felt her tongue gently swipe at his lips. 

She kept it tame, despite him lifting his face to follow her when she pulled away. She was still only inches from him, their noses almost touching, when she pecked a kiss to his lips, again, and again, and again. Each time he would lift, wanting more, and she didn’t give it to him.

Finally he groaned, not trying anymore. He wanted straight answers to some very important questions.

“You wouldn’t leave me?” He kept his voice flat but knew his heart shone in his eyes.  _ Damn it _ .

Sansa shook her head, her red hair tumbling over her shoulders to tickle lay against his neck and enclose them in a curtain of softness. 

“You’ll stay? With me?”

She nodded, her smile creasing the outside corners of her eyes.

Sandor took a deep breath, and he squeezed his hands into fists, knowing she wouldn’t see.

“Forever?”

He stared at her, as uncomfortable as it was. He wanted to look away, didn’t want to see the emotions playing out on her features, but he forced himself to watch, knowing she would know what he meant but not having any idea how she would react to it.

“You... “ She swallowed, her eyes wide. “You want to marry me?”

His eyes never left hers as he nodded. There were no words for this moment. It was a  _ Yes _ or  _ No _ question.

As he stared at her he saw the corners of her mouth tilt up, and then she showed him all her teeth in a blinding smile, and her mouth crashed to his, a bruising, searing kiss that left him dizzy and aching in all the places he was bandaged. But he didn’t care. He’d felt her  _ Yes _ , so he slid all his fingers into her hair and kissed her the way a man kisses the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

She tore her mouth away from his, breathless and trembling as she kissed his nose, his cheeks, his jaw--any skin she could reach from her position high on the bed. 

“Bill meant for us,” she said, her mouth sliding back to kiss the line of his scar on his cheek, back towards hairline and down the side of his neck. Sandor groaned, his neck in pain but the feel of her mouth against him the most wonderful thing he thought he had ever felt.

“What do you mean?” he rasped, tilting his chin up as she nuzzled the underside of his chin, feeling her hair getting caught in the strands of his beard.

“The cabin,” she said, pulling her hair away so she could kiss up the other side of his throat. Sandor turned his face into her neck as she leaned over him, the aches in his body intensifying with the way her lips felt against his skin.

“The cabin?” He sounded silly even to himself, repeating her words like that.

“We’ll build a cabin--for us--for both of us--on your property,” she said between kisses, until finally her mouth was back on his and it was dawning on him what she meant. 

He could picture a small cabin, perhaps two stories, with a studio, a living room, a kitchen where Sansa stood cooking, a bathroom with an extra large tub where they could both fit…

“And your property?” He broke their kiss to ask it but Sansa was having none of it. His words were spoken against her lips as she kissed and nipped and licked at his mouth. 

“Clear it,” she mumbled, and she moaned against him before finally pulling away, an exasperated expression on her face. But she smiled as soon as she looked into his eyes.  _ A good sign _ , he decided. 

“You can make me a big garden where my cabin was, and we’ll grow vegetables and have a hammock and a swing and our own little oasis in the forest.”

“A hammock.” He thought about that for a moment. “Can we have sex in a hammock?”

Sansa’s mouth fell open just before she burst out laughing, at the same time a nurse walked into the room.

 

~*~

 

Sansa felt like she was exactly where she needed to be--in Sandor's sore arms. It just happened to be on a hospital bed, but that didn't matter. What did matter was that they were together, and would be forever.

Marriage. That wasn't what she'd fled to Alaska for, but she was glad to have found Sandor, and for the first time felt whole and loved and wanted.

She'd had a really good childhood, and her family had loved her. But this was different. This was years after first getting that feeling as a teenage girl that she was meant to spend life with a man at her side--a man who saw her as an equal, as a helpmate, and who treasured her. 

This was her finding her dream come true.

It was hammered home that she was where she needed to be when the nurse walked into the room and Sansa felt Sandor's entire body stiffen beside her. She knew what he was about to go through, and she wasn’t about to let him go through it alone.

The nurse who walked in was the nurse who had already been there the previous two days, a kind woman a bit younger than Lucy, whose smiling nametag photo displayed  _ Jackie _ beneath it. If ever there was a woman who had made Sansa feel comfortable and welcome, it was her.

"Good afternoon, Sansa, how are you doing today?" Jackie took her reading glasses off the top of her head where they had been perched and slid them onto the tip of her nose. She walked over to the machines beside Sandor's bed and read some numbers before moving the glasses back up into her hair.

"I'm good," Sansa said, wishing Sandor would look at her. He was staring at Jackie intently, though she couldn't see his facial expression, as she was laying on the opposite side of the bed from Jackie. So instead of comforting him with her face she reached over and slid her hand into his, bringing them both up to rest on his stomach.

"How is your pain level doing?" Jackie looked over at Sansa now, completely avoiding Sandor's face. Bill must have told her Sandor had woken up. Sansa was glad to have such an understanding nurse.

It hadn't mattered too much while Sandor was asleep, but now that he was awake all of his social anxieties were going to be coming back in full force, and Sansa had spoken with the staff about easing him into interactions.

"Mine is manageable," Sansa assured the nurse, giving Sandor's hand a squeeze. In response he squeezed back, though his grip didn't lessen. It remained tight, as though he was thankful to have the reminder that she was there with him.

"That's good. Should we check those bandages soon? I can do it in here, if you'd like."

Sansa nodded. Heaven-sent came to mind when she smiled at Jackie.

After Sansa’s welts were deemed clean and healing, it was time for Jackie to look at Sandor. 

"Mr. Clegane," she said softly, and she smiled at him. Sandor's breathing was deep and even, but Sansa could see the monitor beside the bed and watched his heart rate elevate.

Jackie already knew Sandor likely wouldn't do much talking, so she just went on.

"I'd like to check your bandage, but Sansa can stay where she is. Is that okay? I'm just going to take a peek underneath and make sure everything looks okay. What we don't want is infection." Then she waited, obviously needing him to answer her for this.

Sansa felt him take another deep breath and he nodded, though his grip on her hand was like iron. 

Jackie moved beside the bed and Sansa knew without looking that Sandor's eyes did not leave the nurse's face. But to her credit, Jackie didn't flinch. She just leaned over, lifted the edge of the bandage to check the cut on his temple, and then let it fall back into place before stepping away.

"There we go," she said, smiling. "It all looks good, though we would like to keep you at least overnight to monitor you. The doctor will be in later to check on you, and tonight we'll get you up and walking."

She pulled a notebook out of her pocket and jotted down some notes from the monitor and smiled at Sansa before walking back out.

Sansa knew how incredibly uncomfortable Sandor was around other people. She had seen him around Bill and Lucy, and even then he'd been guarded, despite having known them for quite a few years. So she wasn't surprised when he let out a deep sigh when Jackie closed the door behind her.

He looked up at Sansa though he didn't need words to tell her he was leaning on her for comfort. He let go of her hand and she brought it up to rest against his good cheek, holding his face to her while she comforted him with strokes of her fingertips. He still had one arm behind her on the bed, so he brought up his other to cup her elbow, and he tilted his head towards her chest. It wasn't sexual, though Sansa couldn't help but feel the low thrum of desire at the feel of his body next to hers. But she held him instead, and together they waited while his heart rate slowed and he was relaxed once again.

They spoke quietly, Sansa filling him on everything that had happened during the times he was unconscious at the lake. She told him about her fear that he was going to die, about her fear that he  _ was _ dead at times, and about how desperate she was in the end that she dragged his body through the water and to the sandbar, knowing that she likely could have drowned both of them.

It had been a fluke that a fire suppression helicopter crew had seen them in the lake when they had flown overhead to release the bucket of water near their cabins. It wasn’t long after when a rescue helicopter had flown overhead and Sandor was being taken out of her arms and into the awaiting stretcher. 

The whole helicopter ride was a blur to her, as she’d felt so much relief at being rescued and knowing their ordeal was over that she had nearly passed out. The only thing keeping her from doing so was the need to hold his hand through it all, as he laid motionless on the stretcher.

Since he had already spoken with Lucy and Bill, they didn’t need to rehash what had happened to their friends. Instead Sansa stayed with Sandor, laying at his side talking to him, listening to his short sentences and loving that he was slowly opening up to her. She was very careful in how she touched him as his whole body was still quite sore, but she let him know in every movement and in every touch that he was hers and she was his.

Later that night when she had sat through several examinations of him by doctors and nurses, and had helped him through the second most stressful day they had both had in a couple months, Sansa turned down the lights in the room and slid under the covers of his bed.

Sandor had turned onto his side and now slid an arm around her waist, holding her to him with one of her small hands engulfed in his. Sansa liked the way his solid chest warmed her back.

They were quiet for a while, though Sansa was aware that Sandor wasn’t sleeping. And as tired as she was, she also wasn’t quite ready to attempt sleep.

So when Sandor spoke, the deep timbre of his voice startled her.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice soft as though he wasn’t sure if she was asleep or not.

“Yes?”

He was quiet, but Sansa was accustomed to it so she didn’t say anything. Despite making efforts to speak, he still often needed those few moments to decide exactly what his words were going to be. 

But that didn’t stop Sansa from holding her breath until he spoke. She found herself looking forward to what he had to say even more, now that he was her fiance. 

“I’m… thankful for you,” he said. His arm tightened slightly, and she felt his face slide into the hair at the back of her head. 

She let go of his hand and hugged his arm to her chest, though when she would have spoken he beat her to it.

“I’ve never been a happy man.” He cleared his throat, and she felt him inhale deeply and then warm her hair with his breath as he exhaled. “I never thought--” he began, and she could almost feel his mind working to get his thoughts out. “I never thought I would be with anyone. I never thought I would ever love anyone, as much as I love you.”

Sansa felt tears prick her eyes, and her heart constricted in her chest. 

“I promise,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, “that I will be a good husband to you. I promise to take care of you. I promise to protect you.” She felt him turn his face in her hair, first one way and then the other, as though he was feeling its softness against his skin. Then he withdrew his hand from her grasp and reached up to pull at the neck of her t-shirt, drawing it out to expose the skin at the top of her shoulder. There, his mouth found a scar and pressed against it, his mouth open just enough to allow his tongue to dart out and taste her skin. Sansa shivered--at his breath, his mouth, the feel of his beard against her skin--at all of it. 

“I love every part of you, and I will never give you any reason to doubt that.”

He kissed another scar but Sansa pulled away, turning so she could face him on the stiff bed. In the dim indirect light from the wall behind the bed, she could make out the intense features of his face--the darkness of his beard and mustache, the shadows of his gaze, and the mottled, uneven tone of his scarred skin.

It was there that she pressed her lips when she rose above him, love surging through her at his words and the fact that this mountain man had pledged his life to her happiness. “I promise to love you, and cherish you,” she said, kissing a path across his temple and to his forehead, then down his nose and to his mouth, before adding, “for all the days of my life.”

They sealed their oaths with a kiss, and Sansa knew in her heart that their scars were not entities to be ignored or scorned--but blessings to be accepted and appreciated, as they were what had initially brought them together, and what would cement their bond forever. 


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this long-suffering story <3
> 
> Please keep checking my name, I don't plan on stepping away from Sansan anytime soon. Watch for new fics!
> 
>  
> 
> And finally, the happy ending we've all been waiting for...

 

The courtyard in front of the hospital was brightly lit by the morning sun. The flower boxes Sandor was leaning against were full of irises and poppies, with yellow sunflowers springing out from between the bunches of vibrant purple and stunning red, amidst a bed of green leaves. The air was crisp and sweet, the sky a brilliant clear blue, and the day warm.

He watched people coming and going: elderly in wheelchairs, young people with casts, and everything in between. He was merely a part of the scenery to them, for which he had become increasingly thankful for over the years. 

It had been slow--that progression from an unimaginably private recluse to somewhat private citizen. But it had happened, and he had been nearly powerless to stop it.

That had been Sansa’s doing. Since the Baratheon family had been taken down by a network of undercover informants and its matriarch sent to jail after the death of her oldest son, Sansa had been free to live the life she had always dreamed of, and according to her that meant a life with Sandor.

Who was he to argue  _ that _ ?

It started with rebuilding, which, unbeknownst to him, had turned their quiet corner of Alaska into a flurry of activity once it had gotten out that not only had the favorite resident artist and his girlfriend almost been killed by a madman and a forest fire, but that all of their belongings had been lost in said fire. 

The townspeople had come out in droves, and it seemed like every one of them knew his name and could say which of his paintings was their favorite. Also unbeknownst to him was the fact that his paintings hung in the city hall, in the police station, in doctor’s offices, schools, as well as homes and private businesses. Sandor was more than just a painter to them--he was the one person who was able to capture the embodiment of living in Alaska with his use of color and form and texture in his paintings.

Most of them had known about his scars, as word always seemed to get around in a small town such as theirs. But when they came out to bring meals, logs, roofing, and well wishes for he and Sansa, only a few had openly stared. 

The majority of them treated him like… well, like he was human.

It had helped him ease into their presence, and had then helped him to help Sansa come out of her shell. Seeing him actually speak words to these people had been enough to convince Sansa to attempt to socialize, when the trauma of the forest fire and the confrontation with Joffrey had all but decimated her newfound bubbly, social nature.

In no time at all the donations all added up to what became a cabin, a brand new refuge for him and Sansa, and when all was said and done and the townspeople had left with promises to say hello in town, he and Sansa retreated into their new dwelling with donated furniture, a kitchen full of new appliances, and enough paint supplies for Sandor to get back what Joffrey and Meryn had taken from him.

And…  _ aaaand _ , he remembered now, fondly, it had included a hammock. And  _ yes _ , it was possible to have sex in a hammock.

It was one of his favorite spots on their property, right up there with the small patio and seating they had set up beside Sansa’s large garden. It was the perfect place for him to paint her while she worked, which he did often. The dappled sunlight that fell through the high canopy of aspen and birch trees made her hair glisten and glimmer as though strands of solid, shining gold were intertwined with the red locks. 

It was in the middle of that garden where Sandor had gotten down on one knee and proposed, pledging to her again his undying loyalty and love, and it was there where Sansa acted as though the proposal in the hospital hadn’t happened, so excited was she to see him assume that position and pull the black box out of his pocket.

Sandor was pretty sure he could have wrapped a string around her finger and she would have accepted him, though. She barely looked at the small solitaire diamond as he slid it on her finger before she’d tackled him to the ground and showered his face with kisses.

The wedding was in the meadow where they had seen the moose calves playing around their mama. Sandor knew of no other place where he wanted to join together with Sansa for life.

Her simple white dress, his button-up black shirt and jeans, and Bill and Lucy dressed in their Sunday best was all the family he figured he’d ever need. 

And it was true--the older couple had become increasingly close to him and Sansa, becoming surrogate parents to both of them. Lucy’s hugs and touches came more steadily and Sandor could easily accept them now. Sansa wore her hair up with tank tops around the couple, and had grown to be completely unconcerned with her appearance.

They did dinners often, and conversation flowed, often with Sandor’s input. 

Although he never spoke the words aloud, it was as though the confrontation with Joffrey and Meryn had been the catalyst that launched he and Sansa into this perfect life together. 

It also prompted Bill and Lucy to reevaluate their future, and to choose to step back from their store. When they had offered to partner with Sansa, who would actively manage the store and run it, she had been so excited that there was no way Sandor would try to talk her out of it. 

He had only thought to do so for a moment, when he considered that this also meant being seen on a regular basis by the people in the town, but he had grown to not mind so much. Even Sansa had become accustomed to wearing clothing that showed some scarring: short-sleeved shirts, or blouses with wide necklines. The townspeople were polite enough to never ask about them.

One day while at the store, Sandor was approached by the art teacher of the local high school about teaching a class on painting. He wasn’t ready for that, yet. But maybe someday. Maybe. And that was a step in the right direction.

They still featured his paintings in the store, and they still rarely lasted more than two weeks before someone bought them. But he never sold his paintings of Sansa. He loved to paint her, though more often than not the paintings never reached completion--especially if they featured her in any state of undress.

So yes, life was good. Home life was better.

Sansa had found out several months ago that she was pregnant. They hadn’t been trying, but they also hadn’t been exactly careful with their use of contraceptives. After a little while he started noticing changes in Sansa’s behavior. She was obsessive about turning the spare bedroom into a nursery, and she cleaned all the time.

The best part according to him was that she wanted sex all the time. There were even a few times when he’d been tempted to lock the shop and make use of the storeroom, but knew he couldn’t disrespect Bill and Lucy like that.

Sansa had a short bout with morning sickness but once that had passed, it was like someone was sneaking her aphrodisiacs. Their hammock saw plenty of action, as did the space between raised beds in the garden, the shore of the lake, the bed of his new pickup, and their front porch.

There was rarely a morning where she didn’t wake him up early with soft touches and kisses to his skin, and there were even fewer mornings where he turned her down.

Well, he never turned her down, actually, though she seemed to appreciate that. And she appreciated him morning and night, sometimes several times in a row.

Sandor wasn’t ignorant--he knew this wasn’t going to last forever. But he was going to enjoy it while it did. And afterwards, when the baby was here, he was going to have to figure out what it meant to be a dad, because he had no idea what to do.Sandor knew nothing about babies. He didn’t even know how to hold one. But more importantly, he sometimes questioned if he had it in him to be the kind of dad a kid deserved. Sansa reassured him over and over, saying he was going to be a great dad because he had such a big heart, and was so kind and generous. But still, he had doubts. 

One thing was certain-- he was going to do a better job at raising his kid than his father had done for him and his brother.

They didn’t know the gender yet but Sansa wanted a boy who looked just like Sandor, with dark hair and gray eyes. Sandor decided he wanted a girl with red hair and blue eyes, although he also secretly decided he wouldn’t mind a combination of the two, and that the gender didn’t matter. What he really wanted was a healthy baby, and for Sansa to come through the other side of delivery, also healthy. 

His phone rang in his pocket and he answered it, telling the nurse on the other end of the line that’s he’d be right in.

Bill was in good spirits, having gone in for a knee replacement surgery that Lucy had asked him to drive for. Sandor didn’t mind, as he knew Lucy rarely drove, and with that one small thing taken off her mind, she’d better be able to care for Bill.

“So do you guys have a name picked out yet, or what?” Bill waved a loose hand up at Sandor, who stood behind the wheelchair in the elevator. 

Lucy gave Sandor a sympathetic look, but also smiled.  _ She was curious, as well _ , thought Sandor.

“No names,” he said, and it was true. They had a while yet before the baby was due so names were something that hadn’t been of big importance.

“Well, just so you know,” Bill’s voice was slightly slurred with the anesthesia, “William happens to be a great name. Always fancied I’d have a grandson named William.”

Sandor thought that an odd thing to say, but gave it up to the medicine. Lucy was looking forward, and stepped out quickly as the doors opened in front of them. Bill didn’t seem to be done.

“You know what, Sandor? If you were my son, your child would be my grandbaby.” He cocked his head to the side as though it was an extremely interesting idea. “What do you think? Lucy and I never had kids, and we’re getting kinda lonely in our old age--”

“Bill!” Lucy blushed, interrupting her husband. But he would not be deterred.

“Like I said!” His voice was louder than it needed to be, but Lucy just smiled and walked beside his chair out to the parking lot. “We’re getting lonely, and have taken a liking to your Sansa. So how about it, son? Wanna be family?”

Sandor wasn’t sure what to say, so he looked to Lucy, whose face showed no signs of alleviating his confusion. She was steadfastly avoiding his gaze, while encouraging her husband to maneuver his leg so she could move the foot pedals out of his way.

“Bill--”

“Dad, if you want.”

Sandor swallowed.

“Bill, let’s get you in the truck.” 

The older man huffed at being ignored but he did as he was told, allowing the other two adults to get him into the truck. Lucy sat in the backseat while Sandor returned the wheelchair to the hospital lobby.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about what Bill was saying, though it would be nice to hear it corroborated by Lucy, or at least confirmed after the anesthesia had worn off. What would Sansa say about this conversation?

When he got back to the truck, he saw that Lucy had stepped outside of the truck. She stood by the tailgate, away from Bill’s open window and his prying ears.

“Sandor, I’d like to apologize for Bill’s mouth, he’s a bit loose-lipped from the surgery.”

Sandor shook his head, offering a small smile to the tiny woman. He was caught off-guard by her next words.

She went on, “What he says is true, however. He and I  _ are _ kind of lonely, and we’ve come to truly love you and Sansa. So, if you and her have no objections, we’d like to look on you as a son and daughter, and at your children as our grandchildren. We never had any of our own, obviously, and you would be making both Bill and I very happy. Just think about it, okay?”

Speechless, Sandor nodded. Lucy reached out to pat his arm and then turned to get back in the truck.

The ride home was full of more of Bill’s ramblings, though by the time they reached the small house he was dozing in the passenger seat.

“You will call if you need anything?” Sandor asked after helping Lucy get Bill settled on the couch, where he’d be sleeping for a couple days until he could comfortably handle the stairs.

“I will, Sandor, I will. And you don’t forget to tell Sansa what Bill and I spoke of, okay? Promise me?”

Sandor sighed, not knowing how Sansa was going to take their offer. True, she had no parents of her own anymore, and she’d only recently been reconnected to Jon and Arya through the police who had worked the Baratheon case. But would she welcome the offer of a close relationship between them and Lucy and Bill?

“I promise,” was all he said, but it was enough. Lucy waved him down until he bent so she could kiss his cheek, leaving him standing there dumbfounded on her doorstep as she closed the door.

Sansa was the only person he allowed close, and he’d thought to feel uncomfortable with Lucy’s display of affection.

But he felt…  _ okay _ , he realized. He felt like she had just shown him a little piece of her heart, and it had felt okay. Good, even.

He marveled at the thought all the way home.

  
  
  
  
  


When he pulled into the driveway at his and Sansa’s cabin, she was on her knees in the garden, once again looking as unified with her surroundings as though she’d been created to be there at that very moment. He couldn’t help himself--in his mind he listed the tubes of paint he would use, the orientation of the canvas, and where he would sit if he wanted to paint her just in that moment he first saw her as he stepped out of the truck.

And when she stood, long auburn hair falling over her shoulders bared by the tank top she wore, and her slightly rounded belly pushing down the front of her flowing skirt, she smiled at him, making him think of the most beautiful sunrise he’d ever seen, the most colorful scenery, and being with her was like living with the Northern Lights-- a natural phenomena that one just didn’t take for granted, ever.

She was the light of his life, his purpose for living.

And as she walked towards him, everything around him melted into the background, until it was just her--just red hair and wide smile, loving arms that wrapped around him and soft lips that captured his in a sweet, loving kiss.

“I love you,” she said against his mouth, an unconventional greeting but one he clearly reciprocated.

“And I you,” was his reply. 

“I missed you, too.” Sansa leaned back, her belly the main point of contact between their bodies.

“I’ve been gone for two hours,” Sandor replied with a smile. Sansa pouted, but smiled as she ran her hands up the center of his chest, letting her sensitive fingertips caress the column of his throat.

“Two hours too long.” Her voice was husky, and her eyes closed partway as her fingers skimmed over the surface of his mouth, her dainty tongue coming out to wet her own as she watched herself touch him.

She reached for his hand and pulled him, though she angled towards the lake rather than the cabin like he’d expected. There, at the shoreline, was the new rowboat they’d bought to better enjoy their small sanctuary in the Alaskan wilderness. And buried deep within its bottom was a pile of blankets and pillows.

Sansa had been planning, obviously.

Sandor couldn’t help himself-- he chuckled, pulling on Sansa’s hand to stop her as he tugged her back up against his front.

“Is that a hint?” he asked, one hand spanning the surface of her stomach, the other coming up to cup her breast through her shirt. Talking about Bill and Lucy would apparently have to wait.

“Mm hmm,” she replied, bringing her arm up to wrap around the back of his neck. 

Of course, they never made it off the shore. But it didn’t matter-- their new rowboat was just as comfortable to make love in, with the massive pile of blankets that Sandor swore included every comforter they owned serving as their bed.

When they finished, they lay together, the sun warming their skin for a few minutes before they headed inside, as Sansa was likely to get burned if she stayed out too long. She rested her cheek on his naked chest, her breath tickling the hairs there.

Sandor had an arm wrapped around her back, holding her to him as she tangled her legs through and over his. It was bliss. There was no other way to describe it. Just pure bliss.

“Sansa,” he said, loathe to interrupt the peace but knowing this is a conversation that shouldn’t be held off for long.

“Hmm?” She was idly tracing her fingers through his chest hair, and she let her hand drift to the side where she knew he was ticklish. With feather light touches she traced the sensitive skin, making him twitch as he spoke.

“Bill said some things this afternoon that I thought you should know.”

She hummed again, which was his signal to go on.

“Actually, both he and Lucy. They say they want to be our family--that you are like a daughter to them, and I am like a son, and that they want our kids to be their grandkids.”

The finger stopped. Even Sansa’s breath stopped for a moment, her body rigidly still as she digested what he’d said.

He worried that she was somehow upset by it, and even had that confirmed when he felt the wetness of tears drop onto his chest.

“Hey hey,” he said quietly, “Look at me. Look at me, Sansa.” 

She rose slowly, propping herself on her elbow, her face straight but wet when her eyes met his.

“We don’t have to give them an answer, they just said they’re lonely--”

But Sansa was shaking her head. 

“How do  _ you _ feel about it?” She rested the flat of her hand on his chest, softly rubbing his skin as though unable to entirely stop her movements while they spoke.

“Well, Bill called me  _ son _ .”

“And?”

“And why are you crying?”

“Just answer my question, Sandor.” But she was smiling now, faintly, but it was there.

He looked away briefly, inhaling the clean air deeply before letting it out with a long sigh.

“I think… that I liked hearing it.”

Sansa’s eyes widened for a moment as she smiled.

“Truly?” Her voice was happy, he realized, and more tears fell from her face.

“Yes, truly. But how does it make  _ you _ feel?”

She also paused, looking away from him over the surface of the lake before bringing her face back to his, her lips spreading into a smile.

“I think you and I,” she looked down at where her hand was touching him, “and Bill and Lucy deserve to be happy. And I would love to be their family.”

Sandor smiled, and then remembered what Bill had said.

“He told me to call him Dad, but he was still under quite a bit of anesthesia.”

Sansa’s eyebrows went up as she brought a hand up to wipe at her face.

“Well, now you  _ have _ to call him that.” 

Together they laughed softly, and Sansa laid back down, her head now nestled just under his chin.

“This means our kids will have grandparents. I think I like that,” she whispered. Sandor could hear the smile in her voice.

“You’re happy?” He rubbed her back as he asked, feeling the bumps and marks that were her scars, though he felt like he could never be reassured enough that she was indeed happy. And although he knew her answer, his heart skipped at her words anyway.

“I am, Sandor, truly. I’ve never been happier than I am when I’m with you.”

He reached up to grasp her hand in his, resting them both over his heart.

“And you?” Her quiet voice rose above the gentle sound of the breeze in the trees, and Sandor felt as though his love for her could be felt in the wrap of his arm, the kiss in her hair, and the grip of his hand over hers.

“Yes, Sansa. I’ve never been happier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thanks to everyone who stuck with me through this journey. I got writer's block several times, took breaks, but managed to plow through. 
> 
> I'm so happy for Sandor and Sansa in this story, that they've come out the other side a strong, loving couple. 
> 
> Thanks, guys. You and your comments are very much appreciated <3 <3 <3


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